•' '  Now,'  said  I,  '  is  the  time  for  you  to  exert  all  your  strength.'     '  I  am  ready,'  said  she,1 '—page  8*. 


THE 


LADY    OF    THE    ICE 


A    NOVEL. 


BY 

JAMES    DE   MILLE,      ^ 

AUTHOR    OP 

THE   DODGE   CLUB    ABEOAD,"    "  COED    AND    CEEESE,"    ETC. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY    C.    G.    BUSH. 


NEW     YORK: 
D.     APPLETON      AND      COMPANY, 

90,    92    &    94    GRAND    STREET. 
1870. 


ESTTEBED,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1870,  by 

D.  APPLETON  &  CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District  of 

New  York. 


.0  O]ST  TEU  T  S. 


FAG. 

I.    Consisting  merely  of  Introductory  Matter .          .'.''.•         .          .          .       5 
n.    My  Quarters,  where  you  will  become  acquainted  with  Old  Jack  Randolph,  my  most 
Intimate  Friend,  and  one  who  divides  with  me  the  Honor  of  being  the  Hero  of  my 
Stoi7          •          •  ,        V        .'....  6 

ITT.    "  Macrorie— old  Chap— I'm— going— to— be— married  II!".'.          .  9 

IV.    "  It's— the— the  "Widow  I    It's  Mrs.— Finnimore  ! ! ! "  .  10 

V.    "  Fact,  my  Boy— it  is  as  I  say.— There's  another  Lady  in  the  Case,  and  this  last  is 

the  Worst  Scrape  of  all !"    .          .          , 12 

VI.    "I  implored  her  to  run  away  with  me,  and  have  a  Private  Marriage,  leaving  the 
rest  to  Fate.    And  I  solemnly  assured  her  that,  if  she  refused,  I  would  blow  my 
Brains  out  on  her  Door-stepe.— There,  now!    What  do  you  think  of  that  ?".  15 

VH.    Crossing  the  St.  Lawrence.— The^  Storm  and.  the  Break-up.— A  Wonderful  Adven 
ture.— A  Struggle  for  Life.— Who  is  she  ?— The  Ice-ridge.— Fly  for  your  Life  !       .      17 
Vm.    I  fly  "back,  and  send  the  Doctor  to  the  Rescue.— Return  to  the  Spot.— Flight  of  the 
Bird.— Perplexity,  Astonishment,  Wonder,  and  Despair.—"  Pas  un  Mot,  Mon 
sieur!"      .......  27 

IX.    By  one's  own  Fireside.— The  Comforts  of  a  Bachelor.— Chewing  the  Cud  of  Sweet 
and  Bitter  Fancy.— A  Discovery  full  of  Mortification  and  Embarrassment.— Jack 
Randolph  again.— News  from  the  Seat  of  War  .          ...  30 

X.  Berton's  f— Best  Place  in  the  Town,— Girls  always  glad  to  see  a  Fellow.— Plenty 
of  Chat,  and  Lots  of  Fun.^No  End 'of  Larks,  you  know,  and  all  that  Sort  of 
Thing  .  .  ^  .  .  .  t  t  t  34 

XI.  "  Macrorie,  my  Boy,  have  you  been  toTAnderson's  yet  ? "— "  No."—"  Well,  then,  I 
want  you  to  attend  to  that  Business  of  the  Stone,  to-morrow.  Don't  forget  the 
Size— Four  Feet  by  Eighteen  Inches ;  and  nothing  but  the  Name  and  Date.  The 
Time's  come  at  last.  There's  no  Place  for  me  but  the  Cold  Grave,  where  the  Pen 
sive  Passer-by  may  drop  a  Tear  over  the  Mournful  Fate  of  Jack  Randolph.  Amen 

K-LP-"          -  .      36 

XII.    My  Adventures  rehearsed  to  Jack  Randolph.—"  My  dear  Fellow,  you  don't  say  so ! " 
— "'Pon  my  Life,  yes."— "By  Jove!    Old  Chap,  how  close  you've  been!    You 
must  have  no  End  of  Secrets.    And  what's  become  of  the  Lady  ?    Who  is  she  ?  "     40 
XHI.    "Advertising!!!"  .'.....  43 

1 

M277095 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

XIV.  A  Concert.— A  Singular  Character.—"  God  save  the  Queen."— A  Fenian.— A  Gen 
eral  Eow.— Macrorie  to  theKescue !— Macrorie's  Maiden  Speech,  and  its  Singular 
Effectiveness.— O'Halloran.— A  Strange  Companion.— Invited  to  partake  of  Hos 
pitality .46 

XV.    The  O'Halloran  Ladies.— Their  Appearance.— Their  Ages.— Their  Dress.— Their 
Demeanor.— Their  Culture,  Polish,  Education,  Rank,  Style,  Attainments,  and  all 
about  them  ..........  51 

XVI.    The  Daily  Paper  ..........     6S 

XVII.    "  Somethin'  warrum M       .........          C8 

XVIII.    The  following  Morning.— Appearance  of  Jack  Randolph.— A  New  Complication.— 
The  Three  Oranges.— Desperate  Efforts  of  the  Juggler.— How  to  make  Full,  Ample, 
Complete,  and  most  Satisfactory  Explanations.— Miss  Phillips  !— the  Widow ! ! 
— Number  Three  1 ! ! — Louie  rapidly  rising  into  Greater  Prominence  on  the  Men 
tal  and  Sentimental  Horizon  of  Jack  Randolph  .          .          .          .          .58 

XIX.    O'Halloran's  again.— A  Startling  Revelation.— The  Lady  of  the  Ice.— Found  at  last. 
— Confusion,  Embarrassment,  Reticence,  and  Shyness,  succeeded  by  Wit,  Fasci 
nation,  Laughter,  and  Witching  Smiles         ......  65 

XX.    "  Our  Symposium,"  as  O'Halloran  called  it.— High  and  Mighty  Discourse.— Gen 
eral  Inspection  of  Antiquity  by  a  Learned  Eye.— A  Discourse  upon  the  "  Oionee- 
soizin "    of  the  English  Language. — Homeric   Translations.— O'Halloran   and 
Burns.— A  New  Epoch  for  the  Brogue.— The  Dinner  of  Achilles  and  the  Palace  of 
Antinous         ...........      69 

XXI.  Jack  once  more. — The  Woes  of  a  Lover. — Not  wisely  but  too  many. — While  Jack 
is  telling  his  Little  Story,  the  Ones  whom  he  thus  Entertains  have  a  Separate 
Meeting.— The  Bursting  of  the  Storm.— The  Letter  of  "Number  Three."— The 
Widow  and  Miss  Phillips.— Jack  has  to  avail  himself  of  the  Aid  of  a  Chaplain  of 
Her  Majesty's  Forces.— Jack  an  Injured  Man  .  -»,-  .  .  .  .  71 

XXII.  I  reveal  my  Secret. — Tremendous  Effects  of  the  Revelation. — Mutual  Explanations, 
which  are  by  no  means  satisfactory. — Jack  stands  up  for  what  he  calls  his  Rights. 
— Remonstrances  and  Reasonings,  ending  in  a  General  Row. — Jack  makes  a  Dec 
laration  of  War,  and  takes  his  Departure  in  a  State  of  Unparalleled  Huffiness  77 

XXIH.  A  Friend  becomes  an  Enemy.— Meditations  on  the  Ancient  and  Venerable  Fable  of 
the  Dog  in  the  Manger.— The  Corruption  of  the  Human  Heart.— Consideration  of 
the  Whole  Situation.— Attempts  to  countermine  Jack,  and  Final  Resolve  .  81 

XXIV.  Tremendous  Excitement.— The  Hour  approaches,  and  with  it  the  Man.— The  Lady 
of  the  Ice.— A  Tumultuous  Meeting.— Outpouring  of  Tender  Emotions.— Agita 
tion  of  the  Lady.— A  Sudden  Interruption.— An  Injured  Man,  an  Awful,  Fearful, 
Direful,  and  Utterly-crushing  Revelation.— Who  is  the  Lady  of  the  Ice  1  .  83 

"XXV,  Recovery  from  the  Last  Great  Shock.— Geniality  of  mine  Host.— Off  again  among 
Antiquities.— The  Fenians.— A  Startling  Revelation  by  one  of  the  Inner  Circle. 
—Politics,  Poetry,  and  Pathos.— Far-reaching  Plans  and  Deep-seated  Purposes  85 

XXVI.  A  few  Parting  Words  with  O'Halloran.— His  Touching  Parental  Tenderness,  High 
Chivalric  Sentiment,  and  Lofty  Sense  of  Honor.— Pistols  for  Two.— Pleasant  and 
Harmonious  Arrangement.—"  Me  Boy,  ye're  an  Honor  to  yer  Sex  I  "  •.  .  89 

XXVH.  Sensational !— Terrific  !— Tremendous  !— I  leave  the  House  in  a  Strange  Whirl.— A 
Storm.— The  Driving  Sleet.— I  wander  about.— The  Voices  of  the  Storm,  and  of 
the  River.— The  Clangor  of  the  Bells.— The  Shadow  in  the  Doorway.— The  Mys 
terious  Companion.— A  Terrible  Walk.— Familiar  Voices.— Sinking  into  Sense 
lessness.— The  Lady  of  the  Ice  is  revealed  at  last  amid  the  Storm  1  ....  ft  90 


CONTENTS. 


XXYTII.  My  Lady  of  the  Ice.—  Snow  and  Sleet.—  Eeawakening.—  A  Desperate  Situation.— 
Saved  a  Second  Time.—  Snatched  from  a  Worse  Fate.—  Borne  in  my  Arms  once 
more.—  The  Open  Door  ".-;.•  .:••-•  .:-•»'•=•>/•  W  .  .  . 

XXIX.  Puzzling  Questions  which  cannot  be  answered  as  yet.—  A  Step  toward  Reconcilia 

tion.—  Reunion  of  a  Broken  Friendship.—  Pieces  all  collected  and  joined.—  Joy  of 
Jack.—  Solemn  Debates  over  the  Great  Puzzle  of  the  Period.—  Friendly  Confer 
ences  and  Confidences.—  An  Important  Communication  .  ;  .  .  . 

XXX.  A  Letter  1—  Strange  Hesitation.—  Gloomy  Forebodings.—  Jack  down  deep  in  the 

Dumps.—  Fresh  Confessions.—  Why  he  missed  the  Tryst.—  Remorse  and  Revenge. 
—Jack's  Vows  of  Vengeance.—  A  very  Singular  and  Unaccountable  Character.— 
Jack's  Gloomy  Menaces  ......... 


XXXV. 


XXXVI. 


xxxvn. 


"  Louie  1  "—Platonic  Friendship.— Its  Results.— Advice  may  be  given  too  freely, 
and  Consolation  may  be  sought  for  too  eagerly.— Two  Inflammable  Hearts  should 
not  be  allowed  to  come  together.— the  Old,  Old  Story.— A  Breakdown,  and  the 
Results,  all  around.— The  Condemned  Criminal.— The  Slow  yet  Sure  Approach 
of  the  Hour  of  Execution 


98 


101 


XXXI.  A  Friendly  Call.—  Preliminaries  of  the  Duel  neatly  arranged.—  A  Damp  Journey, 
and  Depressed  Spirits.—  A  Secluded  Spot.—  Difficulties  which  attend  a  Duel  in  a 
Canadian  Spring.—  A  Masterly  Decision.—  Debates  about  the  Niceties  of  the  Code 
of  Honor.—  Who  shall  have  the  First  Shot.—  Struggle  for  Precedence.—  A  very 
Singular  and  very  Obstinate  Dispute.—  I  save  O'Halloran  from  Death  by  Rheu 
matism  ...........  107 

XXXII.  Home  again.—  The  Growls  of  a  Confirmed  Growler.—  Hospitality.  —  The  Well- 
known  Room.—  Vision  of  a  Lady.—  Alone  with  Marion.—  Interchange  of  Thought 
and  Sentiment.—  Two  Beautiful  Women.—  An  Evening  to  be  remembered.—  The 
Conviviality  of  O'Halloran.—  The  Humors  of  O'Halloran,  and  his  Bacchic  Joy  .  112 

XXXIII.  From  April  to  3\mQ.—Tempora  mutantur,  et  nos  mutarfiur  in  tills.—  Startling 

Change  in  Marion  !—  And  why  ?—  Jack  and  his  Woes.—  The  Vengeance  of  Miss 
Phillips.—  Ladies  who  refuse  to  allow  their  Hearts  to  be  broken.—  Noble  Atti 
tude  of  the  Widow.—  Consolations  of  Louie  .....  119 

XXXIV.  Jack's  Tribulations.—  They  rise  up  in  the  very  Face  of  the  most  Astonishing 

Good  Fortunes.—  For,  what  is  like  a  Legacy  ?—  And  this  comes  to  Jack  !—  Seven 
Thousand  Pounds  Sterling  per  Annum  !—  But  what's  the  Use  of  it  all  ?—  Jack 
comes  to  Grief  I—  Woe  !  Sorrow  I  Despair  !  All  the  Widow  !—  Infatuation.—  A 
Mad  Proposal.—  A  Madman,  a  Lunatic,  an  Idiot,  a  March  Hare,  and  a  Hatter, 
all  rolled  into  one,  and  that  one  the  Lucky  yet  Unfortunate  Jack  .  .  .122 


128 


A  Friend's  Apology  for  a  Friend.— Jack  down  at  the  Bottom  of  a  Deep  Abyss  of 
Woe.— His  Despair.— The  Hour  and  the  Man  1— Where  is  the  Woman  ?— A  Sa 
cred  Spot.— Old  Fletcher.— The  Toll  of  the  Bell.- Meditations  on  each  Succes 
sive  Stroke.— A  Wild  Search.— The  Pretty  Servant-Maid,  and  her  Pretty  Story.— 
Throwing  Gold  about  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .131 

My  Own  Affairs.— A  Drive,  and  how  it  came  off.— Varying  Moods.— The  Excited, 
the  Gloomy,  and  the  Gentlemanly.— Straying  about  Montmorency.— Revisiting 
a  Memorable  Scene.— Effect  of  said  Scene.— A  Mute  Appeal  and  an  Appeal  in 
Words.— Result  of  the  Appeals.—"  Will  you  turn  away  ?  "—Grand  Result.— Cli 
max.— Finale.— A  General  Understanding  all  round,  and  a  Universal  Explanation 
of  Numerous  Puzzles  .  ...  - 


CONTENTS. 


XXXVUL  Grand  Conclusion.— Wedding-rings  and  Ball-rings.— St.  Malachi's.— Old  Fletcher 
in  his  Glory.— No  Humbug  this  Time.— Messages  sent  every  where.— All  the  Town 
agog.— Quebec  on  the  Rampage.— St.  Malachi's  crammed.— Galleries  crowded. 
—White  Favors  everywhere.— The  Widow  happy  -with  the  Chaplain.— The 
Double  Wedding.— First  Couple— JACK  AND  LOUIE.— Second  ditto— MACRORIE 
AND  MARION.— Colonel  Berton  and  O'Halloran  giving  away  the  Brides.— Strange 
Association  of  the  British  Officer  and  the  Fenian.— Jack  and  Macrorie,  Louie 
and  Marion.— Brides  and  Bridegroom  s.—Epithalaminm.— Wedding  in  High  Life. 
—Six  Officiating  Clergymen.— All  the  filite  of  Quebec  take  part.— All  the  Clergy, 
all  the  Military,  and  Everybody  who  amounts  to  Any  Thing.— The  Band  of  the 
Bobtails  discoursing  Sweet  Music,  and  all  that  Sort  of  Thing,  you  know  .  146 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CONSISTING    MERELY    OF    INTRODUCTORY    MAT 
TER.  .     , 

THIS  is  a  story  of  Quebec.  Quebec  is  a 
wonderful  city. 

I  am  given  to  understand  that  the  ridge 
on  which  the  city  is  built  is  Laurentian ; 
and  the  river  that  flows  past  it  is  the  same. 
On  this  (not  the  river,  you  know)  are  strata 
of  schist,  shale,  old  red  sand-stone,  trap, 
granite,  clay,  and  mud.  The  upper  stratum 
is  ligneous,  and  is  found  to  be  very  con 
venient  for  pavements. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  from  this  intro 
duction  that  I  am  a  geologist.  I  am  not. 
I  am  a  lieutenant  in  her  Majesty's  129th 
Bobtails.  We  Bobtails  are  a  gay  and  gal 
lant  set,  and  I  have  reason  to  know  that  we 
are  well  remembered  in  every  place  we  have 
been  quartered. 

Into  the  vortex  of  Quebeccian  society  I 
threw  myself  with  all  the  generous  ardor 
of  youth,  and  was  keenly  alive  to  those 
charms  which  the  Canadian  ladies  possess 
and  use  so  fatally.  It  is  a  singular  fact, 
for  which  I  will  not  attempt  to  account, 
that  in  Quebeccian  society  one  comes  in 
contact  with  ladies  only.  Where  the  male 
element  is  I  never  could  imagine.  I  never 


saw  a  civilian.  There  are  no  young  men 
in  Quebec;  if  there  are  any,  we  officers 
are  not  aware  of  it.  I've  often  been  anx 
ious  to  see  one,  but  never  could  make  it 
out.  Now,  of  these  Canadian  ladies  I  can 
not  trust  myself  to  speak  with  calmness. 
An  allusion  to  them  will  of  itself  be  elo 
quent  to  every  brother  officer.  I  will  sim 
ply  remark  that,  at  a  time  when  the  ten 
dencies  of  the  Canadians  generally  are  a 
subject  of  interest  both  in  England  and 
America,  and  when  it  is  a  matter  of  doubt 
whether  they  lean  to  annexation  or  British 
connection,  their  fair  young  daughters  show 
an  unmistakable  tendency  not  to  one,  but 
to  both,  and  make  two  apparently  incom 
patible  principles  really  inseparable. 

You  must  understand  that  this  is  my 
roundabout  way  of  hinting  that  the  un 
married  British  officer  who  goes  to  Canada 
generally  finds  his  destiny  tenderly  folding 
itself  around  a  Canadian  bride.  It  is  the 
common  lot.  Some  of  these  take  their 
wives  with  them  around  the  world,  but 
many  more  retire  from  the  service,  buy 
farms,  and  practise  love  in  a  cottage.  - 
Thus  the  fair  and  loyal  Canadiennes  are 
responsible  for  the  loss  of  many  and  many 
a  gallant  officer  to  her  Majesty's  service. 
Throughout  these  colonial  stations  there 
has  been,  and  there  will  be,  a  fearful  deple- 


6 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


tion  among  the  numbers  of  these  brave  but 
too  impressible  men.  I  make  this  state 
ment  solemnly,  as  a  mournful  fact.  I 
have  nothing  to  say  against  it  ;  and  it  is 
not  for  one  who  has  had  an  experience  like 
mine  to  hint  at  a  remedy.  But  to  my  story  : 

Every  one  who  was  in  Quebec  during  the 
winter  of  18  —  ,  if  he  went  into  society  at 
all,  must  have  been  struck  by  the  appear 
ance  of  a  young  Bobtail  officer,  who  was  a 
joyous  and  a  welcome  guest  at  every  house 
where  it  was  desirable  to  be.  Tall,  straight 
as  an  arrow,  and  singularly  well-propor 
tioned,  the  picturesque  costume  of  the 
129th  Bobtails  could  add  but  little  to  the 
effect  already  produced  by  so  martial  a 
figure.  His  face  was  whiskerless  ;  his  eyes 
gray  ;  his  cheek-bones  a  little  higher  than 
the  average  ;  his  hair  auburn  ;  his  nose  not 
Grecian  —  or  Eoman  —  but  still  impressive: 
his  air  one  of  quiet  dignity,  mingled  with 
youthful  joyance  and  mirthfulness.  Try  — 
0  reader  !  —  to  bring  before  you  such  a  fig 
ure.  Well  —  that's  me. 

Such  was  my  exterior;  what  was  my 
character?  A  few  words  will  suffice  to 
explain:  —  bold,  yet  cautious;  brave,  yet 
tender;  constant,  yet  highly  impressible; 
tenacious  of  affection,  yet  quick  to  kindle 
into  admiration  at  every  new  form  of  beau 
ty  ;  many  times  smitten,  yet  surviving  the 
wound  ;  vanquished,  yet  rescued  by  that 
very  impressibility  of  temper  —  such  was 
the  man  over  whose  singular  adventures 
you  will  shortly  be  called  to  smile  or  to 
weep. 

Here  is  my  card  : 


129th  Bobtails. 

And  now,  my  friend,  having  introduced 
you  to  myself,  having  shown  yon  my  pho 


tograph,  having  explained  my  character, 
and  handed  you  my  card,  allow  me  to  lead 
you  to 

CHAPTER   II. 

MY  QUARTERS,  WHERE  YOU  WILL  BECOME  AC 
QUAINTED  WITH  OLD  JACK  RANDOLPH,  MY 
MOST  INTIMATE  FRIEND,  AND  ONE  WHO  DI- 
TIDES  WITH  ME  THE  HONOR  OF  BEING  THE 
HERO  OF  MY  STORY. 

I'LL  never  forget  the  time.  It  was  a  day 
in  April. 

But  an  April  day  in  Canada  is  a  very 
different  thing  from  an  April  day  in  Eng 
land.  In  England  all  Nature  is  robed  in 
vivid  green,  the  air  is  balmy;  and  all  those 
beauties  abound  which  usually  set  poets 
rhapsodizing,  and  young  men  sentimental 
izing,  and  young  girls  tantalizing.  Now,  in 
Canada  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  No 
Canadian  poet,  for  instance,  would  ever 
affirm  that  in  the  spring  a  livelier  iris 
blooms  upon  the  burnished  dove;  in  the 
spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns 
to  thoughts  of  love.  No.  For  that  sort 
of  thing — the  thoughts  of  love  I  mean — 
winter  is  the  time  of  day  in  Canada.  The 
fact  is,  the  Canadians  haven't  any  spring. 
The  months  which  Englishmen  include 
under  that  pleasant  name  are  here  partly 
taken  up  with  prolonging  the  winter,  and 
partly  with  the  formation  of  a  new  and 
nondescript  season.  In  that  period  Na 
ture,  instead  of  being  darkly,  deeply,  beau 
tifully  green,  has  rather  the  shade  of  a 
dingy,  dirty,  melancholy  gray.  Snow  cov 
ers  the  ground — not  by  any  means  the 
glistening  white  robe  of  Winter — but  a 
rugged  substitute,  damp,  and  discolored. 
It  is  snow,  but  snow  far  gone  into  decay 
and  decrepitude — snow  that  seems  ashamed 
of  itself  for  lingering  so  long  after  wearing 


MY  QUARTERS. 


out  its  welcome,  and  presenting  itself  in  so 
revolting  a  dress — snow,  in  fact,  which  is 
like  a  man  sinking  into  irremediable  ruin, 
and  changing  its  former  glorious  state  for 
that  condition  which  is  expressed  by  the 
unpleasant  word  "  slush."  There  is  not 
an  object,  not  a  circumstance,  in  visible 
Nature  which  does  not  heighten  the  con 
trast.  In  England  there  is  the  luxuriant 
foliage,  the  fragrant  blossom,  the  gay  flow 
er  ;  in  Canada,  black  twigs — bare,  scraggy, 
and  altogether  wretched — thrust  their  re 
pulsive  forms  forth  into  the  bleak  air — 
there,  the  soft  rain-shower  falls ;  here,  the 
fierce  snow-squall,  or  maddening  sleet ! — 
there,  the  field  is  traversed  by  the  cheerful 
plough ;  here,  it  is  covered  with  ice-heaps 
or  thawing  snow;  there,  the  rivers  run 
babbling  onward  under  the  green  trees ; 
here,  they  groan  and  chafe  under  heaps 
of  dingy  and  slowly-disintegrating  ice- 
hummocks  ;  there,  one's  only  weapon 
against  the  rigor  of  the  season  is  the 
peaceful  umbrella;  here,  one  must  defend 
one's  self  with  caps  and  coats  of  fur  and 
india-rubber,  with  clumsy  leggings,  ponder 
ous  boots,  steel-creepers,  gauntlets  of  skin, 
iron-pointed  alpenstocks,  and  forty  or  fifty 
other  articles  which  the  exigencies  of  space 
and  time  will  not  permit  me  to  mention. ; 
On  one  of  the  darkest  and  most  dismal  of 
these  April  days,  I  was  trying  to  kill  time 
in  my  quarters,  when  Jack  Randolph  burst 
in  upon  my  meditations.  Jack  Randolph 
was  one  of  Ours — an  intimate  friend  of 
mine,  and  of  everybody  else  who  had  the 
pleasure  of  his  acquaintance.  Jack  was 
in  every  respect  a  remarkable  man — phys 
ically,  intellectually,  and  morally.  Present 
company  excepted,  he  was  certainly  by  all 
odds  the  finest-looking  fellow  in  a  regi 
ment  notoriously  filled  with  handsome 
men;  and  to  this  rare  advantage  he  add 
ed  all  the  accomplishments  of  life,  and  the 


most  genial  nature  in  the  world.  It  was 
difficult  to  say  whether  he  was  a  greater 
favorite  with  men  or  with  women.  He 
was  noisy,  rattling,  reckless,  good-hearted, 
generous,  mirthful,  witty,  jovial,  daring, 
open-handed,  irrepressible,  enthusiastic, 
and  confoundedly  clever.  He  was  good 
at  every  thing,  from  tracking  a  moose  or 
caribou,  on  through  all  the  gamut  of  rink- 
ing,  skating, 'ice-boating,  and  tobogganing, 
up  to  the  lightest  accomplishments  of 
the  drawing-room.  He  was  one  of  those 
lucky  dogs  who  are  able  to  break 
horses  or  hearts  with  equal  buoyancy  of 
soul.  And  it  was  this  twofold  capacity 
which  made  him  equally  dear  to  either 
sex. 

A  lucky  dog  ?  Yea,  verily,  that  is  what 
he  was.  He  was  welcomed  at  every  mess, 
and  he  had  the  entree  of  every  house  in 
Quebec.  He  could  drink  harder  than  any 
man  in  the  regiment,  and  dance  down  a 
whole  regiment  of  drawing-room  knights. 
He  could  sing  better  than  any  amateur  I 
ever  heard;  and  was  the  best  judge  of  a 
meerschaum-pipe  I  ever  saw.  Lucky  ? 
Yes,  he  was — and  especially  so,  and  more 
than  all  else — on  account  of  the  joyous- 
ness  of  his  soul.  There  was  a  contagious 
and  a  godlike  hilarity  in  his  broad,  open 
brow,  his  frank,  laughing  eyes,  and  his  mo 
bile  lips.  He  seemed  to  carry  about  with 
him  a  bracing  moral  atmosphere.  The 
sight  of  him  had  the  same  effect  on  the 
dull  man  of  ordinary  life  that  the  Hima 
layan  air  has  on  an  Indian  invalid;  and 
yet  Jack  was  head-over-heels  in  debt.  Not 
a  tradesman  would  trust  him.  Shoals  of 
little  bills  were  sent  him  every  day.  Duns 
without  number  plagued  him  from  morning 
to  night.  The  Quebec  attorneys  were  sharp 
ening  their  bills,  and  preparing,  like  birds 
of  prey,  to  swoop  down  upon  him.  In  fact, 
taking  it  altogether,  Jack  had  full  before 


8 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


him  the  sure  and  certain  prospect  of  some 
dismal  explosion. 

On  this  occasion,  Jack — for  the  first 
time  in  our  acquaintance — seemed  to  have 
not  a  vestige  of  his  ordinary  flow  of  spir 
its.  He  entered  without  a  word,  took  up 
a  pipe,  crammed  some  tobacco  into  the 
bowl,  flung  himself  into  an  easy-chair,  and 
began — with  fixed  eyes  and  set  lips — to 
pour  forth  enormous  volumes  of  smoke. 

My  own  pipe  was  very  well  under  way, 
and  I  sat  opposite,  watching  him  in  won 
der.  I  studied  his  face,  and  marked  there 
what  I  had  never  before  seen  upon  it — a  pre 
occupied  and  troubled  expression.  Now, 
Jack's  features,  by  long  indulgence  in  the 
gayer  emotions,  had  immovably  moulded 
themselves  into  an  expression  of  joyous- 
ness  and  hilarity.  Unnatural  was  it  for  the 
merry  twinkle  to  be  extinguished  in  his 
eyes ;  for  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  which 
usually  curled  upward,  to  settle  downward ; 
for  the  general  shape  of  feature,  out-line 
of  muscle,  set  of  lips,  to  undertake  to  be 
come  the  exponents  of  feelings  to  which 
they  were  totally  unaccustomed.  On  this 
occasion,  therefore,  Jack's  face  did  not  ap 
pear  so  much  mournful  as  dismal  ;  and, 
where  another  face  might  have  elicited 
sympathy,  Jack's  face  had  such  a  grew- 
someness,  such  an  utter  incongruity  be 
tween  feature  and  expression,  that  it 
seemed  only  droll. 

I  bore  this  inexplicable  conduct  as  long 
as  I  could,  but  at  length  I  could  stand  it 
no  longer. 

"My  dear  Jack,"  said  I,  "would  it  be 
too  much  to  ask,  in  the  mildest  manner 
in  the  world,  and  with  all  possible  regard 
for  your  feelings,  what,  in  the  name  of  the 
Old  Boy,  happens  to  be  up  just  now  ?  " 

Jack  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
sent  a  long  cloud  of  smoke  forward  in  a 
straight  line,  then  looked  at  me,  then 


heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  then — replaced 
the  pipe,  and  began  smoking  once  more. 

Under  such  circumstances  I  did  not 
know  what  to  do  next,  so  I  took  up  again 
the  study  of  his  face. 

"  Heard  no  bad  news,  I  hope,"  I  said 
at  length,  making  another  venture  between 
the  puffs  of  my  pipe. 

A  shake  of  the  head. 

Silence  again. 

"  Duns  ?  " 

Another  shake. 

Silence. 

"  Writs  ?  " 

Another  shake. 

Silence. 

"  Liver  ?  " 

Another  shake,  together  with  a  contemp 
tuous  smile. 

"  Then  I  give  it  up,"  said  I,  and  betook 
myself  once  more  to  my  pipe. 

After  a  time,  Jack  gave  a  long  sigh,  and 
regarded  me  fixedly  for  some  minutes,  with 
a  very  doleful  face.  Then  he  slowly  ejacu 
lated  : 

"Macrorie!" 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  It's  a  woman  !  " 

"  A  woman  ?  Well.  What's  that  ? 
Why  need  that  make  any  particular  dif 
ference  to  you,  my  boy  ?  " 

He  sighed  again,  more  dolefully  than  be 
fore. 

"  I'm  in  for  it,  old  chap,"  said  he. 

"  How's  that  ?  " 

"  It's  all  over." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Done  up,  sir — dead  and  gone ! " 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  understand  you." 

"Hicjacet  Johannes  Randolph." 

"  You're  taking  to  Latin  by  way  of  mak 
ing  yourself  more  intelligible,  I  suppose." 

"  Macrorie,  my  boy — " 

"  Well  ?  " 


MACKOKIE— OLD  CHAP— I'M— GOING— TO— BE— MAEKIED  !  !  I 


"  Will  you  be  going  anywhere  near  Ander 
son's  to-day — the  stone-cutter,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  If  you  should,  let  me  ask  you  to  do  a 
particular  favor  for  me.  Will  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course.    What  is  it  ?  " 

«  \\rell — it's  only  to  order  a  tombstone 
for  me — plain,  neat — four  feet  by  sixteen 
inches — with  nothing  on  it  but  my  name 
and  date.  The  sale  of  my  effects  will  bring 
enough  to  pay  for  it.  Don't  you  fellows  go 
and  put  up  a  tablet  about  me.  I  tell  you 
plainly,  I  don't  want  it,  and,  what's  more,  I 
won't  stand  it." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  I  cried  ;  "  my  dear  fellow, 
one  would  think  you  were  raving.  Are  you 
thinking  of  shuffling  off  the  mortal  coil  ? 
Are  you  going  to  blow  your  precious  brains 
out  for  a  woman  ?  Is  it  because  some  fair 
one  is  cruel  that  you  are  thinking  of  your 
latter  end?  Will  you,  wasting  with  de 
spair,  die  because  a  woman's  fair  ?  " 

"  No,  old  chap.  I'm  going  to  do  some 
thing  worse." 

"  Something  worse  than  suicide  !  What's 
that  ?  A  clean  breast,  my  boy." 

"  A  species  of  moral  suicide." 

"What's  that?  Your  style  of  expres 
sion  to-day  is  a  kind  of  secret  cipher.  I 
haven't  the  key.  Please  explain." 

Jack  resumed  his  pipe,  and  bent  down 
his  head ;  then  he  rubbed  his  broad  brow 
with  his  unoccupied  hand ;  then  he  raised 
himself  up,  and  looked  at  me  for  a  few  mo 
ments  in  solemn  silence  ;  then  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  speaking  each  word  separately 
and  with  thrilling  emphasis  : 

CHAPTER  III. 

"  MACRORIE — OLD     CHAP — I'M — GOING TO — 

BE MARRIED  !  !  !  " 

AT  that  astounding  piece  of  intelligence, 
I  sat  dumb  and  stared  fixedly  at  Jack  for 


the  space  of  half  an  hour.  He  regarded 
me  with  a  mournful  smile.  At  last  my 
feelings  found  expression  in  a  long,  solemn, 
thoughtful,  anxious,  troubled,  and  perplexed 
whistle. 

I  could  think  of  only  one  thing.  It  was 
a  circumstance  which  Jack  had  confided  to 
me  as  his  bosom-friend.  Although  he  had 
confided  the  same  thing  to  at  least  a  hun 
dred  other  bosom-friends,  and  I  knew  it, 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  the  knowledge  of 
this  did  not  make  the  secret  any  the  less  a 
confidential  one;  and  I  had  accordingly 
guarded  it  like  my  heart's  blood,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  Nor  would  I 
even  now  divulge  that  secret,  were  it  not 
for  the  fact  that  the  cause  for  secrecy  is  re 
moved.  The  circumstance  was  this :  About 
a  year  before,  we  had  been  stationed  at 
Fredericton,  in  the  Province  of  New  Bruns 
wick.  Jack  had  met  there  a  young  lady 
from  St.  Andrews,  named  Miss  Phillips,  to 
whom  he  had  devoted  himself  with  his 
usual  ardor.  During  a  sentimental  sleigh- 
ride  he  had  confessed  his  love,  and  had 
engaged  himself  to  her ;  and,  since  his  ar 
rival  at  Quebec,  he  had  corresponded  with 
her  very  faithfully!  He  considered  himself 
as  destined  by  Fate  to  become  the  husband 
of  Miss  Phillips  at  some  time  in  the  dim 
future,  and  the  only  marriage  before  him 
that  I  could  think  of  was  this.  Still  I  could 
not  understand  why  it  had  come  upon  him 
so  suddenly,  or  .why,  if  it  did  come,  he 
should  so  collapse  under  the  pressure  of  his 
doom. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  after  I  had  rallied  some 
what,  "  I  didn't  think  it  was  to  come  off  so 
soon.  Some  luck  has  turned  up,  I  sup 
pose." 

"  Luck  !  "  repeated  Jack,  with  an  inde 
scribable  accent. 

"  I  assure  you,  though  I've  never  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Phillips,  yet, 


10 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


from  your  description,  I  admire  her  quite 
fervently,  and  congratulate  you  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart." 

"  Miss  Phillips  !  "  repeated  Jack,  with  a 
groan. 

"  What's  the  matter,  old  chap  ?  " 

"  It  isn't— her  !  "  faltered  Jack. 

"  What ! " 

"  She'll  have  to  wear  the  willow." 

"  You  haven't  broken  with  her — have 
you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She'll  have  to  forgive  and  forget,  and 
aH  that  sort  of  thing.  If  it  was  Miss  Phil 
lips,  I  wouldn't  be  so  confoundedly  cut  up 
about  it." 

«  Why — what  is  it  ?  who  is  it  ?  and  what 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

Jack  looked  at  me.  Then  he  looked 
down,  and  frowned.  Then  he  looked  at  me 
again  ;  and  then  he  said,  slowly,  and  with  a 
powerful  effort : 

CHAPTER  IV. 

"  IT'S — THE — THE  WIDOW  !     IT'S  MRS. — FINNI- 
MORE  !  !  !  " 

HAD  a  bombshell  burst — but  I  forbear. 
That  comparison  is,  I  believe,  somewhat 
hackneyed.  The  reader  will  therefore  be 
good  enough  to  appropriate  the  point  of  it, 
and  understand  that  the  shock  of  this  intel 
ligence  was  so  overpowering,  that  I  was 
again  rendered  speechless. 

"  You  see,"  said  Jack,  after  a  long  and 
painful  silence,  "  it  all  originated  out  of  an 
infernal  mistake.  Not  that  I  ought  to  be 
sorry  for  it,  though.  Mrs.  Finnimore,  of 
course,  is  a  deuced  fine  woman.  I've  been 
round  there  ever  so  long,  and  seen  ever  so 
much  of  her ;  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know.  Oh,  yes,"  he  added,  dismally ; 
"  I  ought  to  be  glad,  and,  of  course,  I'm  a 
deuced  lucky  fellow,  and  all  that ;  but—" 


He  paused,  and  an  expressive  silence  fol 
lowed  that  "  but." 

"  Well,  how  about  the  mistake  ? "  I 
asked. 

"Why,  I'll  tell  you.  It  was  that  con 
founded  party  at  Doane's.  You  know  what 
a  favorite  of  mine  little  Louie  Berton  is 
— the  best  little  thing  that  ever  breathed, 
the  prettiest,  the— full  of  fun,  too.  Well, 
we're  awfully  thick,  you  know;  and  she 
chaffed  me  all  the  evening  about  my  en 
gagement  with  Miss  Phillips.  She  had 
heard  all  about  it,  and  is  crazy  to  find  out 
whether  it's  going  on  yet  or  not.  We  had 
great  fun — she  chaffing  and  questioning, 
and  I  trying  to  fight  her  off.  Well ;  the 
dancing  was  going  on,  and  I'd  been  sepa 
rated  from  her  for  some  time,  a.nd  was  try 
ing  to  find  her  again,  and  I  saw  some  one 
standing  in  a  recess  of  one  of  the  windows, 
with  a  dress  that  was  exactly  like  Louie's. 
Her  back  was  turned  to  me,  and  the  cur 
tains  half  concealed  her.  I  felt  sure  that 
it  was  Louie.  So  I  sauntered  up,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  or  two  behind  her.  She  was 
looking  out  of  the  window  ;  one  hand  was 
on  the  ledge,  and  the  other  was  by  her  side, 
half  behind  her.  I  don't  know  what  got 
into  me ;  but  I  seized  her  hand,  and  gave  it 
a  gentle  squeeze. 

"Well,  you  know,  I  expected  that  it 
would  be  snatched  away  at  once.  I  felt 
immediately  an  awful  horror  at  my  indis 
cretion,  and  would  have  given  the  world 
not  to  have  done  it.  I  expected  to  see 
Louie's  flashing  eyes  hurling  indignant  fire 
at  me,  and  all  that.  But  the  hand  didn't 
move  from  mine  at  all !  " 

Jack  uttered  this  last  sentence  with  the 
doleful  accents  of  a  deeply-injured  man — 
such  an  accent  as  one  would  employ  in 
telling  of  a  shameful  trick  practised  upon 
his  innocence. 

"  It  lay  in  mine,"  he  continued.     "  There 


"  IT'S— THE— THE  WIDOW  !  " 


11 


it  was  ;  I  had  seized  it ;  I  had  it ;  I  held  it ; 
I  had  squeezed  it ;  and — good  Lord  ! — Ma- 
crorie,  what  was  I  to  do  ?  I'll  tell  you  what 
I  did — I  squeezed  it  again.  I  thought  that 
now  it  would  go  ;  but  it  wouldn't.  Well,  I 
tried  it  again.  Xo  go.  Once  more — and 
once  again.  On  my  soul,  Macrorie,  it  still 
lay  in  mine.  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
thoughts  I  had.  It  seemed  like  indelicacy. 
It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  associate  indelicacy 
with  one  like  little  Louie  ;  but — hang  it ! — 
there  was  the  awful  fact.  Suddenly,  the 
thought  sk-uck  me  that  the  hand  was  larger 
than  Louie's.  At  that  thought,  a  ghastly 
sensation  came  over  me  ;  and,  just  at  that 
moment,  the  lady  herself  turned  her  face, 
blushing,  arch,  with  a  mischievous  smile. 
To  my  consternation,  and  to  my — well,  yes 
— to  my  horror,  I  saw  Mrs.  Finnimore  !  " 
"  Good  Lord  ! "  I  exclaimed. 
"  A  stronger  expression  would  fail  to  do 
justice  to  the  occasion,"  said  Jack,  help 
ing  himself  to  a  glass  of  beer.  "  For  my 
part,  the  thrill  of  unspeakable  horror  that 
was  imparted  by  that  shock  is  still  strong 
within  me.  There,  my  boy,  you  have  my 
story.  I  leave  the  rest  to  your  imagina 
tion." 

"  The  rest  ?     Why,  do  you  mean  to  say 
that  this  is  all  ?  " 

"All!"  cried  Jack,  with  a  wild  laugh. 
"  All  ?  My  dear  boy,  it  is  only  the  faint 
beginning  ;  but  it  implies  all  the  rest." 
"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  I  asked,  meekly. 
«  gay — say  ?  What !  After — well,  never 
mind.  Hang  it !  Don't  drive  me  into  par 
ticulars.  Don't  you  see  ?  Why,  there  I 
was.  I  had  made  an  assault,  broken 
through  the  enemy's  lines,  thought  I  was 
carrying  every  thing  before  me,  when  sud 
denly  I  found  myself  confronted,  not  by 
an  inferior  force,  but  by  an  overwhelming 
superiority  of  numbers — horse,  foot,  and 
artillery,  marines,  and  masked  batteries — 


yes,  and  baggage-vragons — all  assaulting 
me  in  front,  in  flank,  and  in  the  rear. 
Pooh ! " 

'  Don't  talk  shop,  Jack." 
'  Shop  ?  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to 
suggest  some  ordinary  figure  of  speech  that 
will  give  an  idea  of  my  situation  ?  Plain 
language  is  quite  useless.  At  least,  I  find 
it  so." 

'  But,  at  any  rate,  what  did  she  say  ?  " 
;'  Why,"  answered  Jack,  in  a  more  dis 
mal  voice  than  ever,  "  she  said,  *  Ah, 
Jack  ! ' — she  called  me  Jack ! — '  Ah,  Jack ! 
I  saw  you  looking  for  me.  I  knew  you 
would  come  after  me.'  " 

"Good  Heavens!"  I  cried;  "and  what 
did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Say  ?  Heavens  and  earth,  man !  what 
could  I  say?  Wasn't  I  a  gentleman? 
Wasn't  she  a  lady  ?  Hadn't  I  forced  her 
to  commit  herself?  Didn't  I  have  to  as 
sume  the  responsibility  and  pocket  the  con 
sequences  ?  Say !  Oh,  Macrorie.!  what  is 
the  use  of  imagination,  if  a  man  will  not 
exercise  it  ?  " 

"  And  so  you're  in  for  it  ?  "  said  I,  after 
a  pause. 

"  To  the  depth  of  several  miles,"  said 
Jack,  relighting  his  pipe,  which  in  the 
energy  of  his  narrative  had  gone  out. 

"  And  you  don't  think  of  trying  to  back 
out  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  my  way.  Then,  again,  you 
must  know  that  I've  been  trying  to  see  if  it 
wouldn't  be  the  wisest  thing  for  me  to  make 
the  best  of  my  situation." 

"  Certainly  it  would,  if  you  cannot  possi 
bly  get  out  of  it." 

"  But,  you  see,  for  a  fellow  like  me  it 
may  be  best  not  to  get  out  of  it.  You 
see,  after  all,  I  like  her  very  well.  She's 
an  awfully  fine  woman — splendid  action. 
I've  been  round  there  ever  so  much ;  we've 
always  been  deuced  thick ;  and  she's  got  a 


12 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


kind  of  way  with  her  that  a  fellow  like  me 
can't  resist.  And,  then,  it's  time  for  me 
to  begin  to  think  of  settling  down.  I'm 
getting  awfully  old.  I'll  be  twenty-three 
next  August.  And  then,  you  know,  I'm  so 
deuced  hard  up.  I've  got  to  the  end  of  my 
rope,  and  you  are  aware  that  the  sheriff  is 
beginning  to  be  familiar  with  my  name. 
Yesj  I  think  for  the  credit  of  the  regiment 
I'd  better  take  the  widow.  She's  got  thirty 
thousand  pounds,  at  least." 

"  And  a  very  nice  face  and  figure  along 
with  it,"  said  I,  encouragingly. 

"  That's  a  fact,  or  else  I  could  never 
have  mistaken  her  for  poor  little  Louie, 
and  this  wouldn't  have  happened.  But, 
if  it  had  only  been  little  Louie — well,  well ; 
I  suppose  it  must  be,  and  perhaps  it's  the 
best  thing." 

"If  it  had  been  Louie,"  said  I,  with  new 
efforts  at  encouragement,  "  it  wouldn't  have 
been  any  better  for  you." 

"  No ;  that's  a  fact.  You  see,  I  was 
never  so  much  bothered  in  my  life.  I 
don't  mind  an  ordinary  scrape ;  but  I  can't 
exactly  see  my  way  out  of  this." 

"  You'll  have  to  break  the  news  to  Miss 
Phillips." 

"  And  that's  not  the  worst,"  said  Jack, 
with  a  sigh  that  was  like  a  groan. 

"  Not  the  worst  ?  What  can  be  worse 
than  that  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  have  not  begun  to 
see  even  the  outside  of  the  peculiarly  com 
plicated  nature  of  my  present  situation. 
There  are  other  circumstances  to  which 
all  these  may  be  playfully  represented  as 
a  joke." 

"  Well,  that  is  certainly  a  strong  way  of 
putting  it." 

"  Couldn't  draw  it  mild — such  a  situation 
can  only  be  painted  in  strong  colors.  I'll 
tell  you  in  general  terms  what  it  is.  I 
can't  go  into  particulars.  You  know  all 


about  my  engagement  to  Miss  Phillips. 
I'm  awfully  fond  of  her — give  my  right 
hand  to  win  hers,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know.  Well,  this  is  going  to  be  hard 
on  her,  of  course,  poor  thing !  especially 
as  my  last  letters  have  been  more  tender 
than  common.  But,  old  chap,  that's  all 
nothing.  There's  another  lady  in  the 
case ! " 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  more  astonished  than 
ever. 

Jack  looked  at  me  earnestly,  and  said, 
slowly  and  solemnly : 

CHAPTER    V. 

"  FACT,  MY  BOY — IT  IS  AS  I  SAY. — THERE'S 
ANOTHER  LADY  IN  THE  CASE,  AND  THIS 
LAST  IS  THE  WORST  SCRAPE  OF  ALL  !  " 

"  ANOTHER  lady  ?  "  I  faltered. 

"  Another  lady !  "  said  Jack. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  he. 

"~An  engagement,  too  !  " 

"  An  engagement  ?  I  should  think  so 
— and  a  double-barrelled  one,  too.  An 
engagement — why,  my  dear  fellow,  an  en 
gagement's  nothing  at  all  compared  with 
this.  This  is  something  infinitely  worse 
than  the  affair  with  Louie,  or  Miss  Phillips, 
or  even  the  widow.  It's  a  bad  case — yes 
— an  infernally  bad  case — and  I  don't  see 
but  that  I'll  have  to  throw  up  the  widow 
after  all." 

"  It  must  be  a  bad  case,  if  it's  infinitely 
worse  than  an  engagement,  as  you  say  it 
is.  Why,  man,  it  must  be  nothing  less 
than  actual  marriage.  Is  that  what  you're 
driving  at  ?  It  must  be.  So  you're  a  mar 
ried  man,  are  you  ?  " 

"  No,  not  just  that,  not  quite — as  yet — 
but  the  very  next  thing  to  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  Jack,  I'm  sorry  for  you,  and  all 


FACT,  MY  BOY." 


13 


that  I  can  say  is,  that  it  is  a  pity  that  this 
isn't  Utah.  Being  Canada,  however,  and  a 
civilized  country,  I  can't  see  for  the  life 
of  me  how  you'll  ever  manage  to  pull 
through." 

Jack  sighed  dolefully. 

"  To  tell  the  truth,"  said  he,  "  it's  this 
last  one  that  gives  me  my  only  trouble. 
I'd  marry  the  widow,  settle  up  some  way 
with  Miss  Phillips,  smother  my  shame,  and 
pass  the  remainder  of  my  life  in  peaceful 
obscurity,  if  it  were  not  for  her." 

"  You  mean  by  her,  the  lady  whose  name 
you  don't  mention." 

"  Whose  name  I  don't  mention,  nor  in 
tend  to,"  said  Jack,  gravely.  "  Her  case  is 
so  peculiar  that  it  cannot  be  classed  with 
the  others.  I  never  breathed  a  word  about 
it  to  anybody,  though  it's  been  going  on  for 
six  or  eight  months." 

Jack  spoke  with  such  earnestness,  that 
I  perceived  the  subject  to  be  too  grave  a 
one  in  his  estimation  to  be  trifled  with. 
A  frown  came  over  his  face,  and  he  once 
more  eased  his  mind  by  sending  forth 
heavy  clouds  of  smoke,  as  though  he  would 
thus  throw  off  the  clouds  of  melancholy 
that  had  gathered  deep  and  dark  over  his 
soul. 

"  I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  old 
chap,"  said  he,  at  length,  with  a  very  heavy 
sigh.  "  It's  a  bad  business  from  beginning 
to  end." 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  after  a  long  pause, 
in  which  he  seemed  to  be  collecting  his 
thoughts — "  it  began  last  year — the  time  I 
went  to  New  York,  you  know.  She  went 
on  at  the  same  time.  She  had  nobody 
with  her  but  a  deaf  old  party,  and  got  into 
some  row  at  the  station  about  her  luggage. 
I  helped  her  out  of  it,  and  sat  by  her  side 
all  the  way.  At  New  York  I  kept  up  the 
acquaintance.  I  came  back  with  them, 
that  is  to  say,  with  her,  and  the  deaf  old 


party,  you  know,  and  by  the  time  we 
reached  Quebec  again  we  understood  one 
another. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it— I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
could  !  You  see,  Macrorie,  it  wasn't  an  or- 
dinary  case.  She  was  the  loveliest  little 
girl  I  ever  saw,  and  I  found  myself  awfully 
fond  of  her  in  no  time.  I  soon  saw  that 
she  was  fond  of  me  too.  All  my  other 
affairs  were  a  joke  to  this.  I  wanted  to 
marry  her  in  New  York,  but  the  thought 
of  my  debts  frightened  me  out  of  that,  and 
so  I  put  it  off.  I  half  wish  now  I  hadn't 
been  so  confoundedly  prudent.  Perhaps 
it  is  best,  though.  Still  I  don't  know. 
Better  be  the  wife  of  a  poor  devil,  than 
have  one's  heart  broken  by  a  mean  devil. 
Heigho  ! " 

H  E  I  G  H  0  are  the  letters  which  are 
usually  employed  to  represent  a  sigh.  I 
use  them  in  accordance  with  the  customs 
of  the  literary  world. 

"  Well,"  resumed  Jack,  "  after  my  re 
turn  I  called  on  her,  and  repeated  nay  call 
several  times.  She  was  all  that  could  be 
desired,  but  her  father  was  different.  I 
found  him  rather  chilly,  and  not  at  all  in 
clined  to  receive  me  with  that  joyous  hos 
pitality  which  my  various  merits  deserved. 
The  young  lady  herself  seemed  sad.  I 
found  out,  at  last,  that  the  old  gentleman 
amused  himself  with  badgering  her  about 
me ;  and  finally  she  told  me,  with  tears, 
that  her  father  requested  me  to  visit  that 
house  no  more.  Well,  at  that  I  was  some 
what  taken  aback  ;  but,  nevertheless,  I  de 
termined  to  wait  till  the  old 'gentleman  him 
self  should  speak.  You  know  my  peculiar 
coolness,  old  chap,  that  which  you  and  the 
rest  call  my  happy  audacity  ;  and  you  may 
believe  that  it  was  all  needed  under  such 
circumstances  as  these.  I  went  to  the 
house  twice  after  that.  Each  time  my  lit 
tie  girl  was  half  laughing  with  joy,  half  cry 


14 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


ing  with  fear  at  seeing  me ;  and  each  time 
she  urged  me  to  keep  away.  She  said  we 
could  write  to  one  another.  But  letter- 
writing  wasn't  in  my  line.  So  after  try 
ing  in  vain  to  obey  her,  I  went  once  more 
in  desperation  to  explain  matters. 

"  Instead  of  seeing  her,  I  found  the  old 
fellow  himself.  He  was  simply  white,  hot 
with  rage — not  at  all  noisy,  or  declamatory, 
or  vulgar — but  cool,  cutting,  and  altogether 
terrific.  He  alluded  to  my  gentlemanly  con 
duct  in  forcing  myself  where  I  had  been 
ordered  off;  and  informed  me  that  if  I 
came  again  he  would  be  under  the  unpleas 
ant  necessity  of  using  a  horsewhip.  That, 
of  course,  made  me  savage.  I  pitched  into 
him  pretty  well,  and  gave  it  to  him  hot  and 
heavy,  but,  hang  it !  I'm  no  match  for  fel 
lows  of  that  sort;  he  kept  so  cool,  you 
know,  while  I  was  furious — and  the  long 
and  the  short  of  it  is,  that  I  had  to  retire 
in  disorder,  vowing  on  him  some  mysterious 
vengeance  or  other,  which  I  have  never  been 
able  to  carry  out. 

"  The  next  day  I  got  a  letter  from  her. 
It  was  awfully  sad,  blotted  with  tears,  and 
all  that.  She  implored  me  to  write  her, 
told  me  she  couldn't  see  me,  spoke  about 
her  father's  cruelty  and  persecution — and 
ever  so  many  other  things  not  necessary 
to  mention.  Well,  I  wrote  back,  and  she 
answered  my  letter,  and  so  we  got  into  the 
way  of  a  correspondence  which  we  kept  up 
at  a  perfectly  furious  rate.  It  came  hard 
on  me,  of  course,  for  I'm  not  much  at  a 
pen ;  »my  letters  were  short,  as  you  may 
suppose,  but  then  they  were  full  of  point, 
and  what  matters  quantity  so  long  as  you 
have  quality,  you  know?  Her  letters, 
however,  poor  little  darling,  were  long  and 
eloquent,  and  full  of  a  kind  of  mixture  of 
love,  hope,  and  despair.  At  first  I  thought 
that  I  should  grow  reconciled  to  my  situa 
tion  in  the  course  of  time,  but,  instead  of 


that,  it  grew  worse  every  day.  I  tried  to 
forget  all  about  her,  but  without  success. 
The  fact  is,  I  chafed  under  the  restraint 
that  was  on  me,  and  perhaps  it  wqs  that 
which  was  the  worst  of  all.  I  dare  say 
now  if  I'd  only  been  in  some  other  place — 
in  Montreal,  for  instance — I  wouldn't  have 
had  such  a  tough  time  of  it,  and  might 
gradually  have  forgotten  about  her ;  but 
the  mischief  of  it  was,  I  was  here — in  Que 
bec — close  by  her,  you  may  say,  and  yet  I 
was  forbidden  the  house.  I  had  been  in 
sulted  and  threatened.  This,  of  course, 
only  made  matters  worse,  and  the  end  of 
it  was,  I  thought  of  nothing  else.  My  very 
efforts  to  get  rid  of  the  bother  only  made 
it  a  dozen  times  worse.  I  flung  myself 
into  ladies'  society  with  my  usual  ardor, 
only  worse ;  committed  myself  right  and 
left,  and  seemed  to  be  a  model  of  a  gay 
Lothario.  Little  did  they  suspect  that 
under  a  smiling  face  I  concealed  a  heart 
of  ashes — yes,  old  boy — ashes !  as  I'm  a 
living  sinner.  You  see,  all  the  time,  I  was 
maddened  at  that  miserable  old  scoundrel 
who  wouldn't  let  me  visit  his  daughter — 
me,  Jack  Randolph,  an  officer,  and  a  gen 
tleman,  and,  what  is  more,  a  Bobtail ! 
Why,  my  very  uniform  should  have  been 
a  guarantee  for  my  honorable  conduct. 
Then,  again,  in  addition  to  this,  I  hank 
ered  after  her,  you  know,  most  awfully. 
At  last  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  so 
I  wrote  her  a  letter.  It  was  only  yester 
day.  And  now,  old  chap,  what  do  you 
think  I  wrote  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  I,  mistily; 
"  a  declaration  of  love,  perhaps — " 

"  A  declaration  of  love  ?  pooh  !  "  said 
Jack  ;  "  as  if  I  had  ever  written  any  thing 
else  than  that.  Why,  all  my  letters  were 
nothing  else.  No,  my  boy— this  letter  was 
very  different.  In  the  first  place,  I  told 
her  that  I  was  desperate — then  I  assured 


JACK'S  PBOPOSAL. 


15 


her  that  I  couldn't  live  this  way  any  longer, 
and  I  concluded  with  a  proposal  as  despe 
rate  as  my  situation.  And  what  do  you 
think  my  proposal  was  ?  " 

"  Proposal  ?  Why,  marriage,  of  course  ; 
there  is  only  one  kind  of  proposal  possi 
ble  under  such  circumstances.  But  still 
that's  not  much  more  than  an  engagement, 
dear  boy,  for  an  engagement  means  only 
the  same  thing,  namely,  marriage." 

"  Oh,  but  this  was  far  stronger — it  was 
different,  I  can  tell  you,  from  any  mere 
proposal  of  marriage.  What  do  you  think 
it  was  ?  Guess." 

"  Can't.     Haven't  an  idea." 

"  Well,"  said  Jack— 

CHAPTER  VI. 

"l  IMPLORED  HER  TO  RUN  AWAY  WITH  ME, 
AND  HAVE  A  PRIVATE  MARRIAGE,  LEAVING 
THE  REST  TO  PATE.  AND  I  SOLEMNLY  AS 
SURED  HER  THAT,  IF  SHE  REFUSED,  I  WOULD 
BLOW  MY  BRAINS  OUT  ON  HER  DOOR-STEPS. 
— THERE,  NOW!  WHAT  DO  YOU  THINK  OF 
THAT  ?  " 

SAYING  the  above  words,  Jack  leaned 
back,  and  surveyed  me  with  the  stern  com 
placency  of  despair.  After  staring  at  me 
for  some  time,  and  evidently  taking  some 
sort  of  grim  comfort  out  of  the  speechless- 
ness  to  which  he  had  reduced  me  by  his 
unparalleled  narrative,  he  continued  his  con 
fessions  : 

"  Last  night,  I  made  that  infernal  blun 
der  with  the  widow — confound  her ! — that 
is,  I  mean  of  course,  bless  her!  It's  all 
the  same,  you  know.  To-day  you  behold 
the  miserable  state  to  which  I  am  re 
duced.  To-morrow  I  will  get  a  reply  from 
far.  Of  course,  she  will  consent  to  fly.  I 
know  very  well  how  it  will  be.  She  will 
hint  at  some  feasible  mode,  and  some  con 


venient  time.  She  will,  of  course,  expect 
me  to  settle  it  all  up,  from  her  timid  little 
hints;  and  I  must  settle  it  up,  and  not 
break  my  faith  with  her.  And  now,  Ma- 
crorie,  I  ask  you,  not  merely  as  an  officer 
and  a  gentleman,  but  as  a  man,  a  fellow- 
Christian,  and  a  sympathizing  friend,  what 
under  Heaven  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

He  stopped,  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
lighted  once  more  his  extinguished  pipe, 
and  I  could  see  through  the  dense  volumes 
of  smoke  which  he  blew  forth,  his  eyes 
fixed  earnestly  upon  me,  gleaming  like  two 
stars  from  behind  gloomy  storm-clouds. 

I  sat  in  silence,  and  thought  long  and 
painfully  over  the  situation.  I  could  come 
to  no  conclusion,  but  I  had  to  say  some 
thing,  and  I  said  it. 

"  Put  it  off,"  said  I  at  last,  in  a  general 
state  of  daze. 

"  Put  what  off?  " 

"What?  Why,  the  widow — no,  the — 
the  elopement,  of  course.  Yes,"  I  con 
tinued,  firmly,  "put  off  the  elopement." 

"  Put  off  the  elopement ! "  ejaculated 
Jack.  "  What !  after  proposing  it  so  des 
perately — after  threatening  to  blow  my 
brains  out  in  front  of  her  door  ?  " 

"  That  certainly  is  a  consideration,"  said 
I,  thoughtfully ;  "  but  can't  you  have — well, 
brain-fever — yes,  that's  it,  and  can't  you 
get  some  friend  to  send  word  to  her  ?  " 

"  That's  all  very  well ;  but,  you  see,  I'd 
have  to  keep  my  room.  If  I  went  out, 
she'd  hear  of  it.  She's  got  a  wonderful 
way  of  hearing  about  my  movements. 
She'll  find  out  about  the  widow  before 
the  week's  over.  Oh,  no !  that's  not  to 
be  done."  •  J 

"Well,  then,"  said  I,  desperately,  "let 
her  find  it  out.  The  blow  would  then  fall 
a  little  more  gently." 

"  You  seem  to  me,"  said  Jack,  rather 
huffily,  "to  propose  that  I  should  quietly 


16 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


proceed  to  break  her  heart.  No!  Hang 
it,  man,  if  it  comes  to  that  I'll  do  it  openly, 
and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  without 
shamming  or  keeping  her  in  suspense." 

"Well,  then,"  I  responded,  "why  not 
break  off  with  the  widow  ?  " 

"Break  off  with  the  widow!"  cried 
Jack,  with  the  wondering  accent  of  a  man 
who  has  heard  some  impossible  proposal. 

"  Certainly ;  why  not  ?  " 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  inform  me 
what  thing  short  of  death  could  ever  de 
liver  me  out  of  her  hands  ?  "  asked  Jack, 
mildly. 

"  Elope,  as  you  proposed." 

"  That's  the  very  thing  I  thought  of;  but 
the  trouble  is,  in  that  case  she  would  de 
vote  the  rest  of  her  life  to  vengeance. 
'  Hell  hath  no  fury  like  a  woman  wronged,' 
you  know.  She'd  move  heaven  and  earth, 
and  never  end,  till  I  was  drummed  out  of 
the  regiment.  No,  my  boy.  To  do  that 
would  be  to  walk  with  open  eyes  to  dis 
grace,  and  shame,  and  infamy,  with  a  whole 
community,  a  whole  regiment,  and  the 
Horse-Guards  at  the  back  of  them,  all 
banded  together  to  crush  me.  Such  a  fate 
as  this  would  hardly  be  the  proper  thing  to 
give  to  a  wife  that  a  fellow  loves." 

"  Can't  you  manage  to  make  the  widow 
disgusted  with  you  ?  " 

"No,  I  can't,"  said  Jack,  peevishly. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Why,  make  it  appear  as  though  you 
only  wanted  to  marry  her  for  her  money." 

"  Oh,  hang  it,  man !  how  could  I  do 
that  ?  I  can't  play  a  part,  under  any  cir 
cumstances,  and  that  particular  part  would 
be  so  infernally  mean,  that  it  would  be  im 
possible.  I'm  such  an  ass  that,  if  she  were 
even  to  hint  at  that,  I'd  resent  it  furious- 
ly." 

"  Can't  you  make  her  afraid  about  your 
numerous  gallantries  ?  " 


"  Afraid  ?  why  she  glories  in  them.  So 
many  feathers  in  her  cap,  and  all  that,  you 
know." 

"  Can't  you  frighten  her  about  your  debts 
and  general  extravagance — hint  that  you're 
a  gambler,  and  so  on  ?  " 

"And  then  she'd  inform  me,  very  affec 
tionately,  that  she  intends  to  be  my  guar 
dian  angel,  and  save  me  from  evil  for  all 
the  rest  of  my  life." 

"  Can't  you  tell  her  all  about  your  sol 
emn  engagement  to  Miss  Phillips  ?  " 

"  My  engagement  to  Miss  Phillips  ?  Why, 
man  alive,  she  knows  that  as  well  as  you 
do." 

"  Knows  it !     How  did  she  find  it  out  ?  " 

"  How  ?    Why  I  told  her  myself." 

"  The  deuce  you  did ! " 

Jack  was  silent. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  I,  after  some  further 
thought,  "  why  not  tell  her  every  thing  ?  " 

"Tell  her  every  thing?" 

"  Yes — exactly  what  you've  been  telling 
me.  Make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

Jack  looked  at  me  for  some  time  with  a 
curious  expression. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  at  length,  "  do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  really  in  ear 
nest  in  making  that  proposition  ?  " 

"  Most  solemnly  in  earnest,"  said  I. 

"  Well,"  said  Jack,  "  it  shows  how  mis 
taken  I  was  in  leaving  any  thing  to  your 
imagination.  You  do  not  seem  to  under 
stand,"  he  continued,  dolefully,  "or  you 
will  not  understand  that,  when  a  fellow 
has  committed  himself  to  a  lady  as  I  did, 
and  squeezed  her  hand  with  such  peculiar 
ardor,  in  his  efforts  to  save  himself  and 
do  what's  right,  he  often  overdoes  it.  You 
don't  seem  to  suspect  that  I  might  have 
overdone  it  with  the  widow.  Now,  unfor 
tunately,  that  is  the  very  thing  that  I  did. 
I  did  happen  to  overdo  it  most  confound- 
edly.  And  so  the  melancholy  fact  remains 


CKOSSING-  THE  ST.  LAWKENCE. 


17 


that,  if  I  were  to  repeat  to  her,  verbatim, 
all  that  I've  been  telling  you,  she  would 
find  an  extraordinary  discrepancy  between 
such  statements  and  those  abominably 
tender  confessions  in  which  I  indulged  on 
that  other  occasion.  Nothing  would  ever 
convince  her  that  I  was  not  sincere  at  that 
time ;  and  how  can  I  go  to  her  now  and 
confess  that  I  am  a  humbug  and  an  idiot  ? 
I  don't  see  it.  Come,  now,  old  fellow,  what 
do  you  think  of  that  ?  Don't  you  call  it 
rather  a  tough  situation?  Do  you  think 
a  man  can  see  his  way  out  of  it  ?  Own  up, 
now.  Don't  you  think  it's  about  the  worst 
scrape  you  ever  heard  of?  Come,  now,  no 
humbug." 

The  fellow  seemed  actually  to  begin  to 
feel  a  dismal  kind  of  pride  in  the  very 
hopelessness  of  his  situation,  and  looked 
at  me  with  a  gloomy  enjoyment  of  my  dis 
comfiture. 

For  my  part,  I  said  nothing,  and  for  the 
best  of  reasons :  I  had  nothing  to  say.  So 
I  took  refuge  in  shaking  my  head. 

"  You  see,"  Jack  persisted,  "  there's  no 
help  for  it.  Nobody  can  do  any  thing. 
There's  only  one  thing,  and  that  you  haven't 


"  What's  that  ?  "  I  asked,  feebly. 

Jack  put  the  tip  of  his  forefinger  to  his 
forehead,  and  snapped  his  thumb  against 
his  third. 

"  I  haven't  much  brains  to  speak  of,"  said 
he,  "  but  if  I  did  happen  to  blow  out  what 
little  I  may  have,  it  would  be  the  easiest 
settlement  of  the  difficulty.  It  would  be 
cutting  the  knot,  instead  of  attempting  the 
impossible  task  of  untying  it.  Nobody 
would  blame  me.  Everybody  would  mourn 
for  me,  and,  above  all,  four  tender  female 
hearts  would  feel  a  pang  of  sorrow  for 
my  untimely  fate.  By  all  four  I  should 
be  not  cursed,  but  canonized.  Only  one 
class  would  suffer,  and  those  would  be  wel- 
2 


come  to  their  agonies.  I  allude,  of  course, 
to  my  friends  the  Duns." 

To  this  eccentric  proposal,  I  made  no  re 
ply  whatever. 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  thoughtfully,  "it 
isn't  a  bad  idea.  Not  a  bad  idea,"  he  re 
peated,  rising  from  his  chair  and  putting 
down  his  pipe,  which  had  again  gone  out 
owing  to  his  persistent  loquacity.  "I'll 
think  it  over,"  he  continued,  seriously. 
"You  bear  in  mind  my  little  directions 
about  the  head-stone,  Macrorie,  four  feet 
by  eighteen  inches,  old  fellow,  very  plain, 
and,  mark  me,  only  the  name  and  date. 
Not  a  word  about  the  virtues  of  the  de 
ceased,  etc.  I  can  stand  a  great  deal,  but 
that  I  will  not  stand.  And  now,  old  chap, 
I  must  be  off;  you  can't  do  me  any  good,  I 
see." 

"  At  any  rate,  you'll  wait  till  to-morrow," 
said  I,  carelessly. 

"  Oh,  there's  no  hurry,"  said  he.  "  Of 
course,  I  must  wait  till  then.  I'll  let  you 
know  if  any  thing  new  turns  up." 

And  saying  this,  he  took  his  departure. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CROSSING  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE. — THE  STORM 
AND  THE  BREAK-UP. — A  WONDERFUL  AD 
VENTURE. — A  STRUGGLE  FOR  LIFE. — WHO  IS 
SHE  ? — THE  ICE-RIDGE. — FLY  FOR  YOUR 
LIFE! 

ON  the  following  day  I  found  myself  com 
pelled  to  go  on  some  routine  duty  cross  the 
river  to  Point  Levy.  The  weather  was  the 
most  abominable  of  that  abominable  sea 
son.  It  was  winter,  and  yet  not  Winter's 
self.  The  old  gentleman  had  lost  all  that 
bright  and  hilarious  nature ;  all  that  spark 
ling  and  exciting  stimulus  which  he  owns 
and  holds  here  so  joyously  in  January, 
February,  and  even  March.  He  was  de- 


18 


THE  LADY   OF  THE  ICE. 


crepit,  yet  spiteful ;  a  hoary,  old,  tottering, 
palsied  villain,  hurling  curses  at  all  who 
ventured  into  his  evil  presence.  One  look 
outside  showed  me  the  full  nature  of  all 
that  was  before  me,  and  revealed  the  old 
tyrant  in  the  full  power  of  his  malignancy. 
The  air  was  raw  and  chill.  There  blew  a 
fierce,  blighting  wind,  which  brought  with 
it  showers  of  stinging  sleet.  The  wooden 
pavements  were  overspread  with  a  thin 
layer  of  ice,  so  glassy  that  walking  could 
only  be  attempted  at  extreme  hazard  ;  the 
houses  were  incrusted  with  the  same  cheer 
ful  coating  ;  and,  of  all  the  beastly  weather 
that  I  had  ever  seen,  there  had  never  been 
any  equal  to  this.  However,  there  was  no 
escape  from  it ;  and  so,  wrapping  myself  up 
as  well  as  I  could,  I  took  a  stout  stick  with 
a  sharp  iron  ferrule,  and  plunged  forth  into 
the  storm. 

On  reaching  the  river,  the  view  was  any 
thing  but  satisfactory.  The  wind  here  was 
tremendous,  and  the  sleet  blew  down  in 
long,  horizontal  lines,  every  separate  par 
ticle  giving  its  separate  sting,  while  the 
accumulated  stings  amounted  to  perfect 
torment.  I  paused  for  a  while  to  get  a 
little  shelter,  and  take  breath  before  ven 
turing  across. 

There  were  other  reasons  for  pausing. 
The  season  was  well  advanced,  and  the  ice 
was  not  considered  particularly  safe.  Many 
things  conspired  to  give  indications  of  a 
break-up.  The  ice  on  the  surface  was  soft, 
honey-combed,  and  crumbling.  Near  the 
shore  was  a  channel  of  open  water.  Far 
ther  out,  where  the  current  ran  strongest, 
the  ice  was  heaped  up  in  hillocks  and 
mounds,  while  in  different  directions  ap 
peared  crevices  of  greater  or  less  width. 
Looking  over  that  broad  surface  as  well  as 
I  could  through  the  driving  storm,  where 
not  long  before  I  had  seen  crowds  passing 
and  repassing,  not  a  soul  was  now  visible. 


This  might  have  been  owing  to  the  insecu 
rity  of  the  ice  ;  but  it  might  also  have  been 
owing  to  the  severity  of  the  weather. 
Black  enough,  at  any  rate,  the  scene  ap 
peared;  and  I  looked  forth  upon  it  from 
my  temporary  shelter  with  the  certainty 
that  this  river  before  me  was  a  particularly 
hard  road  to  travel. 

"  Ye'll  no  be  gangin'  ower  the  day,  sew- 
erfy  ?  "  said  a  voice  near  me. 

I  turned  and  saw  a  brawny  figure  in  a 
reefing-jacket  and  "  sou'-wester."  He 
might  have  been  a  sailor,  or  a  scowman, 
or  a  hibernating  raftsman. 

"  Why  ?  "  said  I. 

He  said  nothing,  but  shook  his  head  with 
solemn  emphasis. 

I  looked  for  a  few  moments  longer,  and 
hesitated.  Yet  there  was  no  remedy  for 
it,  bad  as  it  looked.  After  being  ordered 
forward,  I  did  not  like  to  turn  back  with  an 
excuse  about  the  weather.  Besides,  the  ice 
thus  far  had  lasted  well.  Only  the  day  be 
fore,  sleds  had  crossed.  There  was  no  rea 
son  why  I  should  not  cross  now.  Why 
should  I  in  particular  be  doomed  to  a  catas 
trophe  more  than  any  other  man  ?  And, 
finally,  was  not  McGoggin  there  ?  Was  he 
not  always  ready  with  his  warmest  wel 
come  ?  On  a  stormy  day,  did  he  not  always 
keep  his  water  up  to  the  boiling-point,  and 
did  not  the  very  best  whiskey  in  Quebec 
diffuse  about  his  chamber  its  aromatic 
odor? 

I  moved  forward.     The  die  was  cast. 

The  channel  near  the  shore  was  from 
six  to  twelve  feet  in  width,  filled  with  float 
ing  fragments.  Over  this  I  scrambled  in 
safety.  As  I  advanced,  I  could  see  that  in 
one  day  a  great  change  had  taken  place. 
The  surface-ice  was  soft  and  disintegrated, 
crushing  readily  under  the  feet.  All  around 
me  extended  wide  pools  of  water.  From 
beneath  these  arose  occasional  groaning 


CEOSSING  THE  ST.  LAWEENCE. 


19 


sounds — dull,  heavy  crunches,  which  seemed 
to  indicate  a  speedy  break-up.  The  prog 
ress  of  the  season,  with  its  thaws  and  rains, 
had  been  gradually  weakening  the  ice ;  along 
the  shore  its  hold  had  in  some  places  at  least 
been  relaxed ;  and  the  gale  of  wind  that  was 
now  blowing  was  precisely  of  that  descrip 
tion  which  most  frequently  sweeps  away 
resistlessly  the  icy  fetters  of  the  river,  and 
sets  all  the  imprisoned  waters  free.  At 
every  step  new  signs  of  this  approaching 
break-up  became  visible.  From  time  to 
time  I  encountered  gaps  in  the  ice,  of  a 
foot  or  two  in  width,  which  did  not  of  them 
selves  amount  to  much,  but  which  never 
theless  served  to  show  plainly  the  state  of 
things. 

My  progress  was  excessively  difficult. 
The  walking  was  laborious  on  account  of 
the  ice  itself  and  the  pools  through  which  I 
had  to  wade.  Then  there  were  frequent 
gaps,  which  sometimes  could  only  be  trav 
ersed  by  a  long  detour.  Above  all,  there 
was  the  furious  sleet,  which  drove  down  the 
river,  borne  on  by  the  tempest,  with  a  fury 
and  unrelaxing  pertinacity  that  I  never  saw 
equalled.  However,  I  managed  to  toil  on 
ward,  and  at  length  reached  the  centre  of 
the  river.  Here  I  found  a  new  and  more 
serious  obstacle.  At  this  point  the  ice  had 
divided;  and  in  the  channel  thus  formed 
there  was  a  vast  accumulation  of  ice-cakes, 
heaped  up  one  above  the  other  in  a  long 
ridge,  which  extended  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  There  were  great  gaps  in  it, 
however,  and  to  cross  it  needed  so  much 
caution,  and  so  much  effort,  that  I  paused 
for  a  while,  and,  setting  my  back  to  the 
wind,  looked  around  to  examine  the  situa 
tion. 

Wild  enough  that  scene  appeared.  On 
one  side  was  my  destination,  but  dimly  vis 
ible  through  the  storm ;  on  the  other  rose 
the  dark  cliff  of  Cape  Diamond,  frowning 


gloomily  over  the  river,  crowned  with  the 
citadel,  where  the  flag  of  Old  England  was 
streaming  straight  out  at  the  impulse  of 
the  blast,  with  a  stiffness  that  made  it 
seem  as  though  it  had  been  frozen  in  the 
air  rigid  in  that  situation.  Up  the  river 
all  was  black  and  gloomy ;  and  the  storm 
which  burst  from  that  quarter  obscured  the 
view;  down  the  river  the  prospect  was  as 
gloomy,  but  one  thing  was  plainly  visible 
— a  wide,  black  surface,  terminating  the 
gray  of  the  ice,  and  showing  that  there  at 
least  the  break-up  had  begun,  and  the  river 
had  resumed  its  sway. 

A  brief  survey  showed  me  all  this,  and 
for  a  moment  created  a  strong  desire  to  go 
back.  Another  moment,  however,  showed 
that  to  go  forward  was  quite  as  wise  and  as 
safe.  I  did  not  care  to  traverse  again  what 
I  had  gone  over,  and  the  natural  reluctance 
to  turn  back  from  the  half-way  house,  joined 
to  the  hope  of  better  things  for  the  rest 
of  the  way,  decided  me  to  go  forward. 

After  some  examination,  I  found  a  place 
on  which  to  cross  the  central  channel.  It 
was  a  point  where  the  heaps  of  ice  seemed 
at  once  more  easy  to  the  foot,  and  more 
secure.  At  extreme  risk,  and  by  violent 
efforts,  I  succeeded  in  crossing,  and,  on 
reaching  the  other  side,  I  found  the  ice 
more  promising.  TBen,  hoping  that  the 
chief  danger  had  been  successfully  encoun 
tered,  I  gathered  up  my  energies,  and 
stepped  out  briskly  toward  the  opposite 
shore. 

It  was  not  without  the  greatest  difficulty 
and  the  utmost  discomfort  that  I  had  come 
thus  far.  My  clothes  were  coated  with 
frozen  sleet ;  my  hair  was  a  mass  of  ice ; 
and  my  boots  were  filled  with  water. 
Wretched  as  all  this  was,  there  was  no 
remedy  for  it,  so  I  footed  it  as  best  I  could, 
trying  to  console  myself  by  thinking  over 
the  peaceful  pleasures  which  were  awaiting 


20 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


me  at  the  end  of  my  journey  in  the  cham 
bers  of  the  hospitable  McGoggin. 

Suddenly,  as  I  walked  along,  peering  with 
half-closed  eyes  through  the  stormy  sleet 
before  me,  I  saw  at  some  distance  a  dark 
object  approaching.  After  a  time,  the  ob 
ject  drew  nearer,  and  resolved  itself  into 
a  sleigh.  It  came  onward  toward  the  cen 
tre  of  the  river,  which  it  reached  at  about 
a  hundred  yards  below  the  point  where  I 
had  crossed.  There  were  two  occupants  in 
the  sleigh,  one  crouching  low  and  muffled 
in  wraps ;  the  other  the  driver,  who  looked 
like  one  of  the  common  habitam.  Know 
ing  the  nature  of  the  river  there,  and  won 
dering  what  might  bring  a  sleigh  out  at 
such  a  time,  I  stopped,  and  watched  them 
with  a  vague  idea  of  shouting  to  them  to 
go  back.  Their  progress  thus  far  from  the 
opposite  shore,  so  far  at  least  as  I  could 
judge,  made  me  conclude  that  the  ice  on 
this  side  must  be  comparatively  good,  while 
my  own  journey  had  proved  that  on  the 
Quebec  side  it  was  utterly  impossible  for  a 
horse  to  go. 

As  they  reached  the  channel  where  the 
crumbled  ice-blocks  lay  floating,  heaped 
up  as  I  have  described,  the  sleigh  stopped, 
and  the  driver  looked  anxiously  around. 
At  that  very  instant  there  came  one  of 
those  low,  dull,  grinding  sounds  I  have  al 
ready  mentioned,  but  very  much  louder  than 
any  that  I  had  hitherto  heard.  Deep,  an 
gry  thuds  followed,  and  crunching  sounds, 
while  beneath  all  there  arose  a  solemn  mur 
mur  like  the  "  voice  of  many  waters."  I 
felt  the  ice  heave  under  my  feet,  and  sway 
in  long,  slow  undulations,  and  one  thought, 
quick  as  lightning,  flashed  horribly  into  my 
mind.  Instinctively  I  leaped  forward  tow 
ard  my  destination,  while  the  ice  rolled  and 
heaved  beneath  me,  and  the  dread  sounds 
grew  louder  at  every  step. 

Scarcely  had  I  gone  a  dozen  paces  when 


a  piercing  scream  arrested  me.  I  stopped 
and  looked  back.  For  a  few  moments 
only  had  I  turned  away,  yet  in  that  short 
interval  a  fearful  change  had  taken  place. 
The  long  ridge  of  ice  which  had  been 
heaped  up  in  the  mid-channel  had  in 
creased  to  thrice  its  former  height,  and 
the  crunching  and  grinding  of  the  vast 
masses  arose  above  the  roaring  of  the 
storm.  Far  up  the  river  there  came  a 
deeper  and  fuller  sound  of  the  same  kind, 
which,  brought  down  by  the  wind,  burst 
with  increasing  terrors  upon  the  ear.  The 
ridge  of  ice  was  in  constant  motion,  being 
pressed  and  heaped  up  in  ever-increasing 
masses,  and,  as  it  heaped  itself  up,  top 
pling  over  and  falling  with  a  noise  like 
thunder.  There  could  be  but  one  cause 
for  all  this,  and  the  fear  which  had  already 
flashed  through  my  brain  was  now  con 
firmed  to  my  sight.  The  ice  on  which  I 
stood  was  breaking  up  ! 

As  all  this  burst  upon  my  sight,  I  saw 
the  sleigh.  The  horse  had  stopped  in  front 
of  the  ridge  of  ice  in  the  mid-channel,  and 
was  rearing  and  plunging  violently.  The 
driver  was  lashing  furiously  and  trying  to 
turn  the  animal,  which,  frenzied  by  terror, 
and  maddened  by  the  stinging  sleet,  refused 
to  obey,  and  would  only  rear  and  kick. 
Suddenly  the  ice  under  the  sleigh  sank 
down,  and  a  flood  of  water  rolled  over  it, 
followed  by  an  avalanche  of  ice-blocks 
which  had  tumbled  from  the  ridge.  With 
a  wild  snort  of  terror,  the  horse  turned, 
whirling  round  the  sleigh,  and  with  the 
speed  of  the  wind  dashed  back  toward  the 
shore.  As  the  sleigh  came  near,  I  saw  the 
driver  upright  and  trying  to  regain  his  com 
mand  of  the  horse,  and  at  that  instant  the 
other  passenger  started  erect.  The  cloak 
fell  back.  I  saw  a  face  pale,  overhung  with 
dishevelled  hair,  and  filled  with  an  anguish 
of  fear.  But  the  pallor  and  the  fear  could 


CEOSSING  THE  ST.  LAWRENCE. 


21 


not  conceal  the  exquisite  loveliness  of  that 
woman-face,  which  was  thus  so  suddenly 
revealed  in  the  midst  of  the  storm  and  in 
the  presence  of  death;  and  which  now, 
beautiful  beyond  all  that  I  had  ever  dreamed 
of,  arose  before  my  astonished  eyes.  It 
was  from  her  that  the  cry  had  come  but  a 
few  moments  before.  As  she  passed  she 
saw  me,  and  another  cry  escaped  her.  In 
another  moment  she  was  far  ahead. 

And  now  I  forgot  all  about  the  dangers 
around  me,  and  the  lessening  chances  of  an 
interview  with  MeGoggin.  I  hurried  on,  less 
to  secure  my  own  safety  than  to  assist  the 
lady.  And  thus  as  I  rushed  onward  I  be 
came  aware  of  a  new  danger  which  arose 
darkly  between  me  and  the  shore.  It  was 
a  long,  black  channel,  gradually  opening  it 
self  up,  and  showing  in  its  gloomy  surface 
a  dividing  line  between  me  and  life.  To  go 
back  seemed  now  impossible — to  go  for 
ward  was  to  meet  these  black  waters. 
.  Toward  this  gulf  the  frightened  horse  ran 
at  headlong  speed.  Soon  he  reached  the 
margin  of  the  ice.  The  water  was  before 
him  and  headed  him  off.  Terrified  again  at 
this,  he  swerved  aside,  and  bounded  up  the 
river.  The  driver  pulled  frantically  at  the 
reins.  The  lady,  who  had  fallen  back  again 
in  her  seat,  was  motionless.  On  went  the 
horse,  and,  at  every  successive  leap  in  his 
mad  career,  the  sleigh  swung  wildly  first  to 
one  side  and  then  to  the  other.  At  last 
there  occurred  a  curve  in  the  line  of  ice, 
and  reaching  this  the  horse  turned  once 
more  to  avoid  it.  In  doing  so,  the  sleigh 
was  swung  toward  the  water.  The  shafts 
broke.  The  harness  was  torn  asunder. 
The  off-runner  of  the  sleigh  slid  from  the 
ice — it  tilted  over ;  the  driver  jerked  at  the 
reins  and  made  a  wild  leap.  In  vain.  His 
feet  were  entangled  in  the  fur  robes  which 
dragged  him  back.  A  shriek,  louder,  wild 
er,  and  far  more  fearful  than  before,  rang 


out  through  the  storm ;  and  the  next  in 
stant  down  went  the  sleigh  with  its  occu 
pants  into  the  water,  the  driver  falling  out, 
while  the  horse,  though  free  from  the  sleigh, 
was  yet  jerked  aside  by  the  reins,  and  be 
fore  he  could  recover  himself  fell  with  the 
rest  into  the  icy  stream. 

All  this  seemed  to  have  taken  place  in 
an  instant.  I  hurried  on,  with  all  my 
thoughts  on  this  lady  who  was  thus  doomed 
to  so  sudden  and  so  terrible  a  fate.  I  could 
see  the  sleigh  floating  for  a  time,  and  the 
head  of  the  horse,  that  was  swimming.  I 
sprang  to  a  place  which  seemed  to  give  a 
chance  of  assisting  them,  and  looked  eag 
erly  to  see  what  had  become  of  the  lady. 
The  sleigh  drifted  steadily  along.  It  was 
one  of  that  box-shaped  kind  called  pungs, 
which  are  sometimes  made  so  tight  that 
they  can  resist  the  action  of  water,  and 
float  either  in  crossing  a  swollen  stream,  or 
in  case  of  breaking  through  the  ice.  Such 
boat-like  sleighs  are  not  uncommon ;  and 
this  one  was  quite  buoyant.  I  could  see 
nothing  of  the  driver.  He  had  probably 
sunk  at  once,  or  had  been  drawn  under  the 
ice.  The  horse,  entangled  in  the  shafts, 
had  regained  the  ice,  and  had  raised  one 
foreleg  to  its  surface,  with  which  he  was 
making  furious  struggles  to  emerge  from 
the  water,  while  snorts  of  terror  escaped 
him.  But  where  was  the  lady  ?  I  hur 
ried  farther  up,  and,  as  I  approached,  I 
could  see  something  crouched  in  a  heap 
at  the  bottom  of  the  floating  sleigh.  Was 
it  she — or  was  it  only  the  heap  of  buffalo- 
robes  ?  I  could  not  tell. 

The  sleigh  drifted  on,  and  soon  I  came 
near  enough  to  see  that  the  bundle  had  life. 
I  came  close  to  where  it  floated.  It  was 
not  more  that  six  yards  off,  and  was  drift 
ing  steadily  nearer.  I  walked  on  by  the 
edge  of  the  ice,  and  shouted.  There  was 
no  answer.  At  length  I  saw  a  white  hand 


22 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


clutching  the  side  of  the  sleigh.  A  thrill 
of  exultant  hope  passed  through  me.  I 
shouted  again  and  again,  but  my  voice  was 
lost  in  the  roar  of  the  crashing  ice  and  the 
howling  gale.  Yet,  though  my  voice  had 
not  been  heard,  I  was  free  from  suspense, 
for  I  saw  that  the  lady  thus  far  was  safe, 
and  I  could  wait  a  little  longer  for  the 
chance  of  affording  her  assistance.  I 
walked  on,  then,  in  silence,  watching  the 
sleigh  which  continued  to  float.  We  trav 
elled  thus  a  long  distance — I,  and  the  wom 
an  who  had  thus  been  so  strangely  wrecked 
in  so  strange  a  bark.  Looking  back,  I 
could  no  longer  see  any  signs  of  the  horse. 
All  this  time  the  sleigh  was  gradually  drift 
ed  nearer  the  edge  of  the  ice  on  which  I 
walked,  until  at  last  it  came  so  near  that 
I  reached  out  my  stick,  and,  catching  it 
with  the  crooked  handle,  drew  it  toward 
me.  The  shock,  as  the  sleigh  struck 
against  the  ice,  roused  its  occupant.  She 
started  up,  stood  upright,  stared  for  a  mo 
ment  at  me,  and  then  at  the  scene  around. 
Then  she  sprang  out,  and,  clasping  her 
hands,  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  seemed  to 
mutter  words  of  prayer.  Then  she  rose  to 
her  feet,  and  looked  around  with  a  face  of 
horror.  There  was  such  an  anguish  of  fear 
in  her  face,  that  I  tried  to  comfort  her. 
But  my  efforts  were  useless. 

"  Oh  !  there  is  no  hope  !  The  river 
is  breaking  up!"  she  moaned.  "They 
told  me  it  would.  How  mad  I  was  to  try 
to  cross ! " 

Finding  that  I  could  do  nothing  to  quell 
her  fears,  I  began  to  think  what  was  best  to 
be  done.  First  of  all,  I  determined  to  se 
cure  the  sleigh.  It  might  be  the  means  of 
saving  us,  or,  if  not,  it  would  at  any  rate  do 
for  a  place  of  rest.  It  was  better  than  the 
wet  ice  for  the  lady.  So  I  proceeded  to  pull 
it  on  the  ice.  The  lady  tried  to  help  me, 
and,  after  a  desperate  effort,  the  heavy 


pung  was  dragged  from  the  water  upon  the 
frozen  surface.  I  then  made  her  sit  in 
it,  and  wrapped  the  furs  around  her  as  well 
as  I  could. 

She  submitted  without  a  word.  Her 
white  face  was  turned  toward  mine ;  and 
once  or  twice  she  threw  upon  me,  from  her 
dark,  expressive  eyes,  a  look  of  speechless 
gratitude.  I  tried  to  promise  safety,  and 
encouraged  her  as  well  as  I  could,  and  she 
seemed  to  make  an  effort  to  regain  her  self- 
control. 

In  spite  of  my  efforts  at  consolation,  her 
despair  affected  me.  I  looked  all  around 
to  see  what  the  chances  of  escape  might 
be.  As  I  took  that  survey,  I  perceived 
that  those  chances  were  indeed  small.  The 
first  thing  that  struck  me  was,  that  Cape 
Diamond  was  far  behind  the  point  where  I 
at  present  stood.  While  the  sleigh  had 
drifted,  and  I  had  walked  beside  it,  our 
progress  had  been  down  the  river ;  and 
since  then  the  ice,  which  itself  had  all  this 
time  been  drifting,  had  borne  us  on  without 
ceasing.  We  were  still  drifting  at  the  very 
moment  that  I  looked  around.  We  had  also 
moved  farther  away  from  the  shore  which  I 
wished  to  reach,  and  nearer  to  the  Quebec 
side.  When  the  sleigh  had  first  gone  over, 
there  had  not  been  more  than  twenty  yards 
between  the  ice  and  the  shore;  but  now 
that  shore  was  full  two  hundred  yards 
away.  All  this  time  the  fury  of  the  wind, 
and  the  torment  of  the  blinding,  stinging 
sleet,  had  not  in  the  least  abated ;  the  grind 
ing  and  roaring  of  the  ice  had  increased ; 
the  long  ridge  had  heaped  itself  up  to  a 
greater  height,  and  opposite  us  it  towered 
up  in  formidable  masses. 

I  thought  at  one  time  of  intrusting  my 
self  with  my  companion  to  the  sleigh,  in 
the  hope  of  using  it  as  a  boat  to  gain  the 
shore.  But  I  could  not  believe  that  it 
would  float  with  both  of  us,  and,  if  it 


CEOSSING  THE  ST.  LAWEENCE. 


23 


would,  there  were  no  means  of  moving  or 
guiding  it.  Better  to  remain  on  the  ice 
than  to  attempt  that.  Such  a  refuge  would 
only  do  as  a  last  resort.  After  giving  up 
this  idea,  I  watched  to  see  if  there  was  any 
chance  of  drifting  back  to  the  shore,  but 
soon  saw  that  there  was  none.  Every  mo 
ment  drew  us  farther  off.  Then  I  thought 
of  a  score  of  desperate  undertakings,  but 
all  of  them  were  given  up  almost  as  soon 
as  they  suggested  themselves. 

All  this  time  the  lady  had  sat  in  silence 
— deathly  pale,  looking  around  with  that 
same  anguish  of  fear  which  I  had  noticed 
from  the  first,  like  one  who  awaits  an  in 
evitable  doom.  The  storm  beat  about  her 
pitilessly ;  occasional  shudders  passed 
through  her;  and  the  dread  scene  around 
affected  me  far  less  than  those  eyes  of 
agony,  that  pallid  face,  and  those  tremu 
lous  white  lips  that  seemed  to  murmur 
prayers.  She  saw,  as  well  as  I,  the  widen 
ing  sheet  of  water  between  us  and  the 
shore  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other 
the  ever-increasing  masses  of  crumbling  ice. 

At  last  I  suddenly  offered  to  go  to  Que 
bec,  and  bring  back  help  for  her.  So  wild 
a  proposal  was  in  the  highest  degree  im 
practicable  ;  but  I  thought  that  it  might 
lead  her  to  suggest  something.  As  soon 
as  she  heard  it,  she  evinced  fresh  terror. 

"  Oh,  sir !  "  she  moaned,  "  if  you  have 
a  human  heart,  do  not  leave  me!  For 
God's  sake,  stay  a  little  longer." 

"  Leave  you !  "  I  cried ;  "  never  while  I 
have  breath.  I  will  stay  with  you  to  the 
last." 

But  this,  instead  of  reassuring  her,  mere 
ly  had  the  effect  of  changing  her  feelings. 
She  grew  calmer. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  you  must  not.  I  was 
mad  with  fear.  No — go.  You  at  least  can 
save  yourself.  Go—fly — leave  me  !  " 

"  Never !  "  I  repeated.      "  I  only  made 


that  proposal — not  thinking  to  save  you, 
but  merely  supposing  that  you  would  feel 
better  at  the  simple  suggestion  of  some 
thing." 

"  I  implore  you,"  she  reiterated.  "  Go 
— there  is  yet  time.  You  only  risk  your 
life  by  delay.  Don't  waste  your  time  on 
me." 

"I  could  not  go  if  I  would,"  I  said, 
"  and  I  swear  I  would  not  go  if  I  could," 
I  cried,  impetuously.  "  I  hope  you  do  not 
take  me  for  any  thing  else  than  a  gentle 
man." 

"  Oh,  sir,  pardon  me.  Can  you  think 
that  ? — But  you  have  already  risked  your 
life  once  by  waiting  to  save  mine — and,  oh, 
do  not  risk  it  by  waiting  again." 

"  Madame,"  said  I,  "  you  must  not  only 
not  say  such  a  thing,  but  you  must  not 
even  think  it.  I  am  here  with  you,  and, 
being  a  gentleman,  I  am  here  by  your  side 
either  for  life  or  death.  But  come — rouse 
yourself.  Don't  give  up.  I'll  save  you,  or 
die  with  you.  At  the  same  time,  let  me 
assure  you  that  I  haven't  the  remotest 
idea  of  dying." 

She  threw  at  me,  from  her  eloquent 
eyes,  a  look  of  unutterable  gratitude,  and 
said  not  a  word. 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  three 
o'clock.  There  was  no  time  to  lose.  The 
day  was  passing  swiftly,  and  at  this  rate 
evening  would  come  on  before  one  might 
be  aware.  The  thought  of  standing  idle 
any  longer,  while  the  precious  hours  were 
passing,  was  intolerable.  Once  more  I 
made  a  hasty  survey,  and  now,  pressed  and 
stimulated  by  the  dire  exigencies  of  the 
hour,  I  determined  to  make  an  effort  tow 
ard  the  Quebec  side.  On  that  side,  it 
seemed  as  though  the  ice  which  drifted 
from  the  other  shore  was  being  packed  in 
an  unbroken  mass.  If  so,  a  way  over  it 
might  be  found  to  a  resolute  spirit. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


I  hastily  told  my  companion  my  plan. 
She  listened  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  I  will  do  all  that  I  can,"  said  she,  and 
I  saw  with  delight  that  the  mere  prospect 
of  doing  something  had  aroused  her. 

My  first  act  was  to  push  the  sleigh  with 
its  occupant  toward  the  ice-ridge  in  the 
centre  of  the  river.  The  lady  strongly  ob 
jected,  and  insisted  on  getting  out  and 
helping  me.  This  I  positively  forbade.  I 
assured  her  that  my  strength  was  quite 
sufficient  for  the  undertaking,  but  that 
hers  was  not ;  and  if  she  would  save  her 
self,  and  me,  too,  she  must  husband  all  her 
resources  and  obey  implicitly.  She  sub 
mitted  under  protest,  and,  as  I  pushed  her 
along,  she  murmured  the  most  touching 
expressions  of  sympathy  and  of  gratitude. 
But  pushing  a  sleigh  over  the  smooth  ice 
is  no  very  difficult  work,  and  the  load  that 
it  contained  did  not  increase  the  labor  in 
my  estimation.  Thus  we  soon  approached 
that  long  ice-ridge  which  I  have  so  fre 
quently  mentioned.  Here  I  stopped,  and 
began  to  seek  a  place  which  might  afford 
a  chance  for  crossing  to  the  ice-field  on  the 
opposite  side. 

The  huge  ice-blocks  gathered  here,  where 
the  fields  on  either  side  were  forced  against 
one  another,  grinding  and  breaking  up. 
Each  piece  was  forced  up,  and,  as  the  grind 
ing  process  continued,  the  heap  rose  higher. 
At  times,  the  loftiest  parts  of  the  ridge  top 
pled  over  with  a  tremendous  crash,  while 
many  other  piles  seemed  about  to  do  the 
same.  To  attempt  to  pass  that  ridge  would 
be  to  encounter  the  greatest  peril.  In  the 
first  place,  it  would  be  to  invite  an  ava 
lanche  ;  and  then,  again,  wherever  the  piles 
fell,  the  force  of  that  fall  broke  the  field-ice 
below,  and  the  water  rushed  up,  making  a 
passage  through  it  quite  as  hazardous  as 
the  former.  For  a  long  time  I  examined 
without  seeing  any  place  which  was  at  all 


practicable.  There  was  no  time,  however, 
to  be  discouraged ;  an  effort  had  to  be 
made,  and  that  without  delay ;  so  I  deter 
mined  to  try  for  myself,  and  test  one  or 
more  places.  One  place  appeared  less  dan 
gerous  than  others — a  place  where  a  pile  of 
uncommon  size  had  recently  fallen.  The 
blocks  were  of  unusual  size,  and  were  raised 
up  but  a  little  above  the  level  of  the  ice  on 
which  I  stood.  These  blocks,  though  sway 
ing  slowly  up  and  down,  seemed  yet  to  be 
strong  enough  for  my  purpose.  I  sprang 
toward  the  place,  and  found  it  practicable. 
Then  I  returned  to  the  lady.  She  was  eager 
to  go.  Here  we  had  to  give  up  the  sleigh, 
since  to  transport  that  also  was  not  to  be 
thought  of. 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  is  the  time  for  you  to 
exert  all  your  strength." 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  she. 

"  Hurry,  then." 

At  that  moment  there  burst  a  thunder- 
shock.  A  huge  pile  farther  down  had  fall 
en,  and  bore  down  the  surface-ice.  The 
water  rushed  boiling  and  seething  upward, 
and  spread  far  over.  There  was  not  a  mo 
ment  to  lose.  It  was  now  or  never;  so, 
snatching  her  hand,  I  rushed  forward.  The 
water  was  up  to  my  knees,  and  sweeping 
past  and  whirling  back  with  a  furious  im 
petuosity.  Through  that  flood  I  dragged 
her,  and  she  followed  bravely  and  quickly. 
I  pulled  her  up  to  the  first  block,  then 
onward  to  another.  Leaping  over  a  third, 
I  had  to  relinquish  her  hand  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  extending  mine  once  more,  I 
caught  hers,  and  she  sprang  after  me.  All 
these  blocks  were  firm,  and  our  weight  did 
not  move  their  massive  forms.  One  huge 
piece  formed  the  last  stage  in  our  hazard 
ous  path.  It  overlapped  the  ice  on  the 
opposite  side.  I  sprang  down,  and  the 
next  instant  the  lady  was  by  my  side. 
Thank  Heaven !  we  were  over. 


CEOSSING  THE  ST.  LAWEENCE. 


25 


Onward  then  we  hurried  for  our  lives, 
seeking  to  get  as  far  as  possible  from  that 
dangerous  channel  of  ice-avalanches  and 
seething  waters  ;  and  it  was  not  till  a  safe 
distance  intervened,  that  I  dared  to  slacken 
my  pace  so  as  to  allow  my  companion  to 
take  breath.  All  this  time  she  had  not 
spoken  a  word,  and  had  shown  a  calmness 
and  an  energy  which  contrasted  strongly 
with  her  previous  lethargy  and  terror. 

I  saw  that  the  ice  in  this  place  was 
rougher  than  it  had  been  on  the  other  side. 
Lumps  were  upheaved  in  many  places. 
This  was  a  good  sign,  for  it  indicated  a 
close  packing  in  this  direction,  and  less 
danger  of  open  water,  which  was  the  only 
thing  now  to  be  feared.  The  hope  of  reach 
ing  the  shore  was  now  strong  within  me. 
That  shore,  I  could  perceive,  must  be  some 
distance  below  Quebec ;  but  how  far  I  could 
not  tell.  I  could  see  the  dark  outline  of 
the  land,  but  Quebec  was  now  no  longer 
perceptible  through  the  thick  storm  of 
sleet. 

For  a  long  time,  my  companion  held  out 
nobly,  and  sustained  the  rapid  progress 
which  I  was  trying  to  keep  up;  but,  at 
length,  she  began  to  show  evident  signs  of 
exhaustion.  I  saw  this  with  pain,  for  I  was 
fearful  every  moment  of  some  new  circum 
stance  which  might  call  for  fresh  exertion 
from  both  of  us.  I  would  have  given  any 
thing  to  have  had  the  sleigh  which  we 
were  forced  to  relinquish.  I  feared  that 
her  strength  would  fail  at  the  trying  mo 
ment.  The  distance  before  us  was  yet  so 
great  that  we  seemed  to  have  traversed  but 
little.  I  insisted  on  her  taking  my  arm  and 
leaning  on  me  for  support,  and  tried  to 
cheer  her  by  making  her  look  back  and 
see  how  far  we  had  gone.  She  tried  to 
smile ;  but  the  smile  was  a  failure.  In  her 
weakness,  she  began  to  feel  more  sensibly 
the  storm  from  which  she  had  been  shel 


tered  to  some  extent  before  she  left  the 
sleigh.  She  cowered  under  the  fierce  pelt 
of  the  pitiless  sleet,  and  clung  to  me, 
trembling  and  shivering  with  cold. 

On  and  on  we  walked.  The  distance 
seemed  interminable.  The  lady  kept  up 
well,  considering  her  increasing  exhaustion, 
saying  nothing  whatever;  but  her  quick, 
short  breathing  was  audible,  as  she  panted 
with  fatigue.  I  felt  every  shudder  that  ran 
through  her  delicate  frame.  And  yet  I  did 
not  dare  to  stop  and  give  her  rest ;  for, 
aside  from  the  imminent  danger  of  losing 
our  hope  of  reaching  land,  a  delay,  even  to 
take  breath,  would  only  expose  her  the 
more  surely  to  the  effect  of  the  cold.  At 
last,  I  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  drew  off 
my  overcoat.  This,  in  spite  of  her  protes 
tations,  I  forced  her  to  put  on.  She  threat 
ened,  at  one  time,  to  sit  down  on  the  ice  and 
die,  rather  than  do  it. 

"Yery  well,  madame,"  said  I.  "Then, 
out  of  a  punctilio,  you  will  destroy,  not 
only  yourself,  but  me.  Do  I  deserve 
this  ?  " 

At  this,  tears  started  to  her  eyes.  She 
submitted. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  she  murmured,  "  what  can  I 
say  ?  It's  for  your  sake  that  I  refuse.  I 
will  submit.  God  bless  you — who  sent 
you  to  my  help !  God  forever  bless  jok  •!  " 

I  said  nothing. 

On  and  on ! 

Then  her  steps  grew  feebler — then  ha 
weight  rested  on  me  more  heavily. 

On  and  on ! 

She  staggered,  and  low  moans  succeeded 
to  her  heavy  panting.  At  last,  with  a  cry 
of  despair,  she  fell  forward. 

I  caught  her  in  my  arms,  and  held  her 
up. 

"  Leave  me  !  "  she  said,  in  a  faint  voice. 
"  I  cannot  walk  any  farther." 

"  No ;  I  will  wait  for  a  while." 


26 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  Oh,  leave  me !  Save  yourself !  Or  go 
ashore,  and  bring  help  ! " 

"  No  ;  I  will  go  ashore  with  you,  or  not 
at  all." 

She  sighed,  and  clung  to  me. 

After  a  time,  she  revived  a  little,  and  in 
sisted  on  going  onward.  This  time  she 
walked  for  some  distance.  She  did  this 
with  a  stolid,  heavy  step,  and  mechani 
cally,  like  an  automaton  moved  by  machin 
ery.  Then  she  stopped  again. 

"  I  am  dizzy,"  said  she,  faintly. 

I  made  her  sit  down  on  the  ice,  and  put 
myself  between  her  and  the  wind.  That 
rest  did  much  for  her.  But  I  was  afraid  to 
let  her  sit  more  than  five  minutes.  Her 
feet  were  saturated,  and,  in  spite  of  my 
overcoat,  she  was  still  shivering. 

"  Come,"  said  I ;  "if  we  stay  any  longer, 
you  will  die." 

She  staggered  up.  She  clung  to  me,  and 
I  dragged  her  on.  Then,  again,  she  stopped. 

I  now  tried  a  last  resort,  and  gave  her 
some  brandy  from  my  flask.  I  had  thought 
of  it  often,  but  did  not  wish  to  give  this 
until  other  things  were  exhausted  ;  for, 
though  the  stimulus  is  an  immediate  rem 
edy  for  weakness,  yet  on  the  ice  and  in 
the  snow  the  reaction  is  dangerous  to  the 
last  degree.  The  draught  revived  her  won 
derfully. 

Starting  once  more,  with  new  life,  she 
was  able  to  traverse  a  very  great  distance  ; 
and  at  length,  to  my  delight,  the  shore  be 
gan  to  appear  very  near.  But  now  the  re 
action  from  the  stimulant  appeared.  She 
sank  down  without  a  word ;  and  another 
draught,  and  yet  another,  was  needed  to 
infuse  some  false  strength  into  her.  At 
length,  the  shore  seemed  close  by  us. 
Here  she  gave  out  utterly. 

"  I  can  go  no  farther,"  she  moaned,  as 
ehe  fell  straight  down  heavily  and  suddenly 
on  the  ice. 


"  Only  one  more  effort,"  I  said,  implor 
ingly.  "  Take  some  more  brandy." 

"It  is  of  no  use.  Leave  me !  Get 
help ! " 

"  See — the  shore  is  near.  It  is  not  more 
than  a  few  rods  away." 

"  I  cannot." 

I  supported  her  in  my  arms,  for  she  was 
leaning  on  her  hand,  and  slowly  sinking 
downward.  Once  more  I  pressed  the  bran 
dy  upon  her  lips,  as  her  head  lay  on  my 
shoulder.  Her  eyes  were  closed.  Down 
on  her  marble  face  the  wild  storm  beat 
savagely  ;  her  lips  were  bloodless,  and  her 
teeth  were  fixed  convulsively.  It  was  only 
by  an  effort  that  I  could  force  the  brandy 
into  her  mouth.  Once  more,  and  for  the 
last  time,  the  fiery  liquid  gave  her  a  mo 
mentary  strength.  She  roused  herself  from 
the  stupor  into  which  she  was  sinking,  and, 
springing  to  her  feet  with  a  wild,  spasmodic 
effort,  she  ran  with  outstretched  hands  tow 
ard  the  shore.  For  about  twenty  or  thirty 
paces  she  ran,  and,  before  I  could  overtake 
her,  she  fell  once  more. 

I  raised  her  up,  and  again  supported 
her.  She  could  move  no  farther.  I  sat  by 
her  side  for  a  little  while,  and  looked  tow 
ard  the  shore.  It  was  close  by  us  now ; 
but,  as  I  looked,  I  saw  a  sight  which  made 
any  further  delay  impossible. 

Directly  in  front,  and  only  a  few  feet 
away,  was  a  dark  chasm  lying  between  us 
and  that  shore  for  which  we  had  been 
striving  so  earnestly.  It  was  a  fathom 
wide;  and  there  flowed  the  dark  waters 
of  the  river,  gloomily,  warningly,  mena 
cingly  !  To  me,  that  chasm  was  nothing  ; 
but  how  could  she  cross  it?  Besides, 
there  was  no  doubt  that  it  was  widening 
every  moment. 

I  started  up. 

"  Wait  here  for  a  moment,"  said  I,  hur 
riedly. 


"PAS  UN  MOT,  MONSIEUR.' 


I  left  her  half  reclining  on  the  ice,  and 
ran  hastily  up  and  down  the  chasm.  I 
could  see  that  my  fears  were  true.  The 
whole  body  of  ice  was  beginning  to  break 
away,  and  drift  from  this  shore  also,  as  it 
had  done  from  the  other.  I  saw  a  place 
not  more  than  five  feet  wide.  Back  I 
rushed  to  my  companion.  I  seized  her, 
and,  lifting  her  in  my  arms,  without  a  word, 
I  carried  her  to  that  place  where  the  chan 
nel  was  narrowest ;  and  then,  without  stop 
ping  to  consider,  but  impelled  by  the  one 
fierce  desire  for  safety,  I  leaped  forward, 
and  my  feet  touched  the  opposite  side. 

With  a  horrible  crash,  the  ice  broke  be 
neath  me,  and  I  went  down.  That  sound, 
and  the  awful  sensation  of  sinking,  I  shall 
never  forget.  But  the  cake  of  ice  which 
had  given  way  beneath  my  feet,  though  it 
went  down  under  me,  still  prevented  my 
sinking  rapidly.  I  flung  myself  forward, 
and  held  up  my  almost  senseless  burden  as 
I  best  could  with  one  arm,  while  with  the 
other  I  dug  my  sharp-pointed  stick  into 
the  ice  and  held  on  for  a  moment.  Then, 
summoning  up  my  strength,  I  passed  my 
left  arm  under  my  companion,  and  raised 
her  out  of  the  water  upon  the  ice.  My  feet 
seemed  sucked  by  the  water  underneath  the 
shelf  of  ice  against  which  I  rested ;  but 
the  iron-pointed  stick  never  slipped,  and  I 
succeeded.  Then,  with  a  spring,  I  raised 
myself  up  from  the  water,  and  clambered 
out. 

My  companion  had  struggled  up  to  her 
knees,  and  grasped  me  feebly,  as  though  to 
assist  me.  Then  she  started  to  her  feet. 
The  horror  of  sudden  death  had  done  this, 
and  had  given  her  a  convulsive  energy  of 
recoil  from  a  hideous  fate.  Thus  she 
sprang  forward,  and  ran  for  some  distance. 
I  hastened  after  her,  and,  seizing  her  arm, 
drew  it  in  mine,  But  at  that  moment  her 
short-lived  strength  failed  her,  and  she  sank 


once  more.  I  looked  all  around — the  shore 
was  only  a  few  yards  off.  A  short  distance 
away  was  a  high,  cone-shaped  mass  of  ice, 
whose  white  sheen  was  distinct  amid  the 
gloom.  I  recognized  it  at  once. 

"  Courage,  courage  !  "  I  cried.  "  "We  are 
at  Montmorency.  There  is  a  house  not  far 
away.  Only  one  more  effort." 

She  raised  her  head  feebly. 

"  Do  you  see  it  ?  Montmorency !  the  ice- 
cone  of  the  Falls !  "  I  cried,  eagerly. 

Her  head  sank  back  again. 

"Look!  look!  We  are  saved!  we  are 
near  houses ! " 

The  only  answer  was  a  moan.  She  sank 
down  lower.  I  grasped  her  so  as  to  sustain 
her,  and  she  lay  senseless  in  my  arms. 

There  was  now  no  more  hope  of  any 
further  exertion  from  her.  Strength  and 
sense  had  deserted  her.  There  was  only 
one  thing  to  be  done. 

I  took  her  in  my  arms,  and  carried  her 
toward  the  shore.  How  I  clambered  up 
that  steep  bank,  I  do  not  remember.  At 
any  rate,  I  succeeded  in  reaching  the  top, 
and  sank  exhausted  there,  holding  my  bur 
den  under  the  dark,  sighing  evergreens. 

Rising  once  more,  I  raised  her  up,  and 
made  my  way  to  a  house.  The  inmates 
were  kind,  and  full  of  sympathy.  I  com 
mitted  the  lady  to  their  care,  and  fell  ex 
hausted  on  a  settee  in  front  of  the  huge 
fireplace. 


CHAPTER  Till. 

I  FLY  BACK,  AND  SEND  THE  DOCTOR  TO  THE 
RESCUE. — RETURN  TO  THE  SPOT. — PLIGHT 
OF  THE  BIRD. — PERPLEXITY,  ASTONISHMENT, 
WONDER,  AND  DESPAIR. — "  PAS  UN  MOT, 
MONSIEUR !  " 

A  LONG  time  passed,  and  I  waited  in 
great  anxiety.    Meanwhile,  I  had  changed 


28 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


my  clothes,  and  sat  by  the  fire  robed  in  the 
picturesque  costume  of  a  French  habitant, 
while  my  own  saturated  garments  were  dry 
ing  elsewhere.  I  tried  to  find  out  if  there 
was  a  doctor  anywhere  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  but  learned  that  there  was  none 
nearer  than  Quebec.  The  people  were  such 
dolts,  that  I  determined  to  set  out  myself 
for  the  city,  and  either  send  a  doctor  or 
fetch  one.  After  immense  trouble,  I  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  a  horse ;  and,  just  be 
fore  starting,  I  was  encouraged  by  hearing 
that  the  lady  had  recovered  from  her 
swoon,  and  was  much  better,  though  some 
what  feverish. 

It  was  a  wild  journey. 

The  storm  was  still  raging;  the  road 
was  abominable,  and  was  all  one  glare  of 
frozen  sleet,  which  had  covered  it  with  a 
slippery  surface,  except  where  there  arose 
disintegrated  ice-hummocks  and  heaps  of 
Blush — the  debris  of  giant  drifts.  More 
over,  it  was  as  dark  as  Egypt.  My  prog 
ress,  therefore,  was  slow.  A  boy  went 
with  me  as  far  as  the  main  road,  and,  after 
seeing  me  under  way,  he  left  me  to  my  own 
devices.  The  horse  was  very  aged,  and,  I 
fear,  a  little  rheumatic.  Besides,  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  he  was  blind.  That 
did  not  make  any  particular  difference, 
though ;  for  the  darkness  was  so  intense, 
that  eyes  were  as  useless  as  they  would  be 
to  the  eyeless  fishes  of  the  Mammoth  Cave. 
I  don't  intend  to  prolong  my  description 
of  this  midnight  ride.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  the  horse  walked  all  the  way,  and, 
although  it  was  midnight  when  I  started, 
it  was  near  morning  when  I  reached  my 
quarters. 

I  hurried  at  once  to  the  doctor,  and,  to 
his  intense  disgust,  roused  him  and  im 
plored  his  services.  I  made  it  a  personal 
matter,  and  put  it  in  such  an  affecting  light, 
that  he  consented  to  go;  but  he  assured 


me  that  it  was  the  greatest  sacrifice  to 
friendship  that  he  had  ever  made  in  his 
life.  I  gave  him  the  most  explicit  direc 
tions,  and  did  not  leave  him  till  I  saw  him 
on  horseback,  and  trotting,  half  asleep, 
down  the  street. 

Then  I  went  to  my  room,  completely  used 
up  after  such  unparalleled  exertions.  I  got 
a  roaring  fire  made,  established  myself  on 
my  sofa  immediately  in  front  of  it,  and 
sought  to  restore  my  exhausted  frame  by 
hot  potations.  My  intention  was  to  rest 
for  a  while,  till  I  felt  thoroughly  warmed, 
and  then  start  for  Montmorency  to  see  about 
the  lady.  With  this  in  my  mind,  and  a  pipe 
in  my  mouth,  and  a  tumbler  of  toddy  at  my 
elbow,  I  reclined  on  my  deep,  soft,  old- 
fashioned,  and  luxurious  sofa;  and,  thus 
situated,  I  fell  off  before  I  knew  it  into  an 
exceedingly  profound  sleep. 

When  I  awoke,  it  was  broad  day.  I 
started  up,  looked  at  my  watch,  and,  to 
my  horror,  found  that  it  was  half-past  twelve. 
In  a  short  time,  I  had  flung  off  my  habitant 
clothes,  dressed  myself,  got  my  own  horse, 
and  galloped  off  as  fast  as  possible. 

I  was  deeply  vexed  at  myself  for  sleeping 
so  long ;  but  I  found  comfort  in  the  thought 
that  the  doctor  had  gone  on  before.  Tho 
storm  had  gone  down,  and  the  sky  was 
clear.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly.  The 
roads  were  abominable,  but  not  so  bad  as 
they  had  been,  and  my  progress  was  rapid. 
So  I  went  on  at  a  rattling  pace,  not  spar 
ing  my  horse,  and  occupying  my  mind  with 
thoughts  of  the  lady  whom  I  had  saved, 
when  suddenly,  about  three  miles  from 
Quebec,  I  saw  a  familiar  figure  advancing 
toward  me. 

It  was  the  doctor ! 

He  moved  along  slowly,  and,  as  I  drew 
nearer,  I  saw  that  he  looked  very  much 
worn  out,  very  peevish,  and  very  discon 
tented. 


"PAS  UN  MOT,  MONSIEUK.' 


29 


"  Well,  old  man,"  said  I,  "  how  did  you 
find  her  ?  " 

"Find  her?"  growled  the  doctor— "I 
didn't  find  her  at  all.  If  this  is  a  hoax," 
he  continued,  "  all  I  can  say,  Macrorie,  is 
this,  that  it's  a  devilish  stupid  one." 

"  A  hoax  ?  What— didn't  find  her  ?  "  I 
gasped. 

"Find  her?  Of  course  not.  There's 
no  such  a  person.  Why,  I  could  not  even 
find  the  house." 

"  What — do  you  mean  ?  I — I  don't  un 
derstand—"  I  faltered. 

"  Why,"  said  the  doctor,  who  saw  my 
deep  distress  and  disappointment,  "  I  mean 
simply  this  :  I've  been  riding  about  this  in 
fernal  country  all  day,  been  to  Montmoren- 
cy,  called  at  fifty  houses,  and  couldn't  find 
anybody  that  knew  any  thing  at  all  about 
any  lady  whatever." 

At  this,  my  consternation  was  so  great 
that  I  couldn't  say  one  single  word.  This 
news  almost  took  my  breath  away.  The 
doctor  looked  sternly  at  me  for  some  time, 
and  then  was  about  to  move  on. 

This  roused  me. 

"What!"  I  cried;  "you're  not  think 
ing  oi"  going  back  ?  " 

"  Back  ?  Of  course,  I  am.  That's  the 
very  thing  I'm  going  to  do." 

"  For  God's  sake,  doctor,"  I  cried,  earn 
estly,  "  don't  go  just  yet !  I  tell  you,  the 
kdy  is  there,  and  her  condition  is  a  most 
perilous  one.  I  told  you  before  how  I 
saved  her.  I  left  there  at  midnight,  last 
night,  in  spite  of  my  fatigue,  and  travelled 
all  night  to  get  you.  I  promised  her  that 
you  would  be  there  early  this  morning.  It's 
now  nearly  two  in  the  afternoon.  Good 
Heavens  !  doctor,  you  won't  leave  a  fellow 
in  such  a  fix  ?  " 

"Macrorie,"  said  the  doctor,  "I'm  half 
dead  with  fatigue.  I  did  it  for  your  sake, 
and  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  for  another 


soul — no,  not  even  for  Jack  Kandolph.  So 
be  considerate,  my  boy." 

"  Doctor,"  I  cried,  earnestly,  "  it's  .a  case 
of  life  and  death!" 

A  long  altercation  now  followed ;  but  the 
end  of  it  was  that  the  doctor  yielded,  and, 
in  spite  of  his  fatigue,  turned  back,  grum 
bling  and  growling. 

So  we  rode  back  together — the  doctor, 
groaning  and  making  peevish  remarks ;  I, 
oblivious  of  all  this,  and  careless  of  my 
friend's  discomfort.  My  mind  was  full  of 
visions  of  the  lady — the  fair  unknown.  I 
was  exceedingly  anxious  and  troubled  at 
the  thought  that  all  this  time  she  had  been 
alone,  without  any  medical  assistance.  I 
pictured  her  to  myself  as  sinking  rapidly 
into  fever  and  delirium.  Stimulated  by  all 
these  thoughts,  I  hurried  on,  while  the  doc 
tor  with  difficulty  followed.  At  length,  we 
arrived  within  half  a  mile  of  the  Falls  ;  but 
I  could  not  see  any  signs  of  the  house  which 
I  wished  to  find,  or  of  the  road  that  led  to 
it.  I  looked  into  all  the  roads  that  led  to 
the  river ;  but  none  seemed  like  that  one 
which  I  had  traversed. 

The  doctor  grew  every  moment  more 
vexed. 

"  Look  here  now,  Macrorie,"  said  he,  at 
last — "  I'll  go  no  farther — no,  not  a  step. 
I'm  used  up.  I'll  go  into  the  nearest 
house,  and  wait." 

Saying  this,  he  turned  abruptly,  and  went 
to  a  house  that  was  close  by 

I  then  dismounted,  went  to  the  upper 
bank  of  the  Montmorency,  where  it  joins 
the  St.  Lawrence  below  the  Falls,  and 
looked  down. 

The  ice  was  all  out.  The  place  which 
yesterday  had  been  the  scene  of  my  strug 
gle  for  life  was  now  one  vast  sheet  of  dark- 
blue  water.  As  I  looked  at  it,  an  involun 
tary  shudder  passed  through  me ;  for  now 
I  saw  the  full  peril  of  my  situation. 


30 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


Looking  along  the  river,  I  saw  the  place 
where  I  must  have  landed,  and  on  the  top 
of  the  steep  bank  I  saw  a  house  which 
seemed  to  be  the  one  where  I  had  found 
refuge.  Upon  this,  I  went  back,  and,  get 
ting  the  doctor,  we  went  across  the  fields 
to  this  house.  I  knocked  eagerly  at  the 
door.  It  was  opened,  and  in  the  person  of 
the  habitant  before  me  I  recognized  my  host 
of  the  evening  before. 

"  How  is  madame  ?  "  I  asked,  hurriedly 
and  anxiously. 

"  Madame  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame — the  lady,  you  know." 

"  Madame  ?     She  is  not  here." 

"Not  here!"  I  cried. 

"Non,  monsieur." 

"Not  here?  What!  Not  here?"  I 
cried  again.  "But  she  must  be  here. 
Didn't  I  bring  her  here  last  night  ?  " 

"Certainly,  monsieur;  but  she's  gone 
home." 

At  this,  there  burst  from  the  doctor  a 
peal  of  laughter — so  loud,  so  long,  so  sav 
age,  and  so  brutal,  that  I  forgot  in  a  mo 
ment  all  that  he  had  been  doing  for  my 
sake,  and  felt  an  almost  irresistible  incli 
nation  to  punch  his  head.  Only  I  didn't ; 
and,  perhaps,  it  was  just  as  well.  The  sud 
den  inclination  passed,  and  there  remained 
nothing  but  an  overwhelming  sense  of  dis 
appointment,  by  which  I  was  crushed  for  a 
few  minutes,  while  still  the  doctor's  mock 
ing  laughter  sounded  in  my  ears. 

"How  was  it?"  I  asked,  at  length — 
"how  did  she  get  off?  When  I  left,  she 
was  in  a  fever,  and  wanted  a  doctor." 

"  After  you  left,  monsieur,  she  slept,  and 
awoke,  toward  morning,  very  much  better. 
She  dressed,  and  then  wanted  us  to  get  a 
conveyance  to  take  her  to  Quebec.  We 
told  her  that  you  had  gone  for  a  doctor, 
and  that  she  had  better  wait.  But  this, 
she  said,  was  impossible.  She  would  not 


think  of  it.  She  had  to  go  to  Quebec  as 
soon  as  possible,  and  entreated  us  to  find 
some  conveyance.  So  we  found  a  wagon 
at  a  neighbor's,  threw  some  straw  in  it  and 
some  skins  over  it,  and  she  went  away." 

"  She  went ! "  I  repeated,  in  an  imbecile 
way. 

"  Oui,  monsieur." 

"  And  didn't  she  leave  any  word  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  ? '» 

"  Didn't  she  leave  any  message  for — for 
me?" 

"  Non,  monsieur." 

"  Not  a  word  ?  "  I  asked,  mournfully  and 
despairingly. 

The  reply  of  the  habitant  was  a  crushing 
one: 

"  Pas  un  mot,  monsieur  !  " 

The  doctor  burst  into  a  shriek  of  sardonic 
laughter. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

BY  ONE'S  OWN  FIRESIDE. — THE  COMFORTS  OF  A 
BACHELOR. — CHEWING  THE  CUD  OF  SWEET 
AND  BITTER  FANCY. — A  DISCOVERY  FULL  OF 
MORTIFICATION  AND  EMBARRASSMENT. — JACK 
RANDOLPH  AGAIN. — NEWS  FROM  THE  SEAT 
OF  WAR. 

BY  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  I  was  back 
in  my  room  again.  The  doctor  had  chaffed 
me  so  villanously  all  the  way  back  that  my 
disappointment  and  mortification  had  van 
ished,  and  had  given  place  to  a  feeling  of 
resentment.  I  felt  that  I  had  been  ill- 
treated.  After  saving  a  girl's  life,  to  be 
dropped  so  quietly  and  so  completely,  was 
more  than  flesh  and  blood  could  stand. 
And  then  there  was  that  confounded  doc 
tor.  He  fairly  revelled  in  my  situation, 
and  forgot  all  about  his  fatigue.  However, 
before  I  left  him,  I  extorted  from  him  a 
promise  to  say  nothing  about  it,  swearing 


BY  ONE'S  OWN  FIRESIDE. 


31 


if  he  didn't  I'd  sell  out  and  quit  the  ser 
vice.  This  promise  he  gave,  with  the  re 
mark  that  he  would  reserve  the  subject  for 
his  own  special  use. 

Once  within  my  own  room,  I  made  my 
self  comfortable  in  my  own  quiet  way, 
viz. : 

1.  A  roaring,  red-hot  fire. 

2.  Curtains  close  drawn. 

3.  Sofa  pulled  up  beside  said  fire. 

4.  Table  beside  sofa. 

5.  Hot  water. 

6.  Whiskey. 

7.  Tobacco. 

8.  Pipes. 

9.  Fragrant  aromatic  steam. 

10.  Sugar. 

11.  Tumblers. 

12.  Various  other  things  not  necessary 
to  mention,  all   of   which  contributed  to 
throw  over  my  perturbed  spirit  a  certain 
divine  calm. 

Under  such  circumstances,  while  every 
moment  brought  forward  some  new  sense 
of  rest  and  tranquillity,  my  mind  wandered 
back  in  a  kind  of  lazy  reverie  over  the 
events  of  the  past  two  days. 

Once  more  I  wandered  over  the  crum 
bling  ice  ;  once  more  I  floundered  through 
the  deep  pools  of  water;  once  more  I 
halted  in  front  of  that  perilous  ice-ridge, 
with  my  back  to  the  driving  storm  and  my 
eyes  searching  anxiously  for  a  way  of 
progress.  The  frowning  cliff,  with  its  flag 
floating  out  stiff  in  the  tempest,  the  dim 
shore  opposite,  the  dark  horizon,  the  low 
moan  of  the  river  as  it  struggled  against 
its  icy  burden,  all  these  came  back  again. 
Then,  through  all  this,  I  rushed  forward, 
scrambling  over  the  ice-ridge,  reaching 
the  opposite  plain  to  hurry  forward  to  the 
shore.  Then  came  the  rushing  sleigh,  the 
recoiling  horse,  the  swift  retreat,  the  mad 
race  along  the  brink  of  the  icy  edge,  the 


terrible  plunge  into  the  deep,  dark  water. 
Then  came  the  wild,  half-human  shriek  of 
the  drowning  horse,  and  the  sleigh  with 
its  despairing  freight  drifting  down  toward 
me.  Through  all  this  there  broke  forth 
amid  the  clouds  of  that  reverie,  the  vision 
of  that  pale,  agonized  face,  with  its  white 
lips  and  imploring  eyes — the  face  of  her 
whom  I  had  saved. 

So  I  had  saved  her,  had  I  ?  Yes,  there 
was  no  doubt  of  that.  Never  would  I  lose 
the  memory  of  that  unparalleled  journey  to 
Hontmorency  Fall,  as  I  toiled  on,  dragging 
with  me  that  frail,  fainting,  despairing 
companion.  I  had  sustained  her ;  I  had 
cheered  her ;  I  had  stimulated  her ;  and, 
finally,  at  that  supreme  moment,  when  she 
fell  down  in  sight  of  the  goal,  I  had  put 
forth  the  last  vestige  of  my  own  strength 
in  bearing  her  to  a  place  of  safety. 

And  so  she  had  left  me. 

Left  me — without  a  word — without  a 
hint — without  the  remotest  sign  of  any 
thing  like  recognition,  not  to  speak  of  grati 
tude  ! 

Pas  un  mot ! 

Should  I  ever  see  her  again  ? 

This  question,  which  was  very  natural 
under  the  circumstances,  caused  me  to 
make  an  effort  to  recall  the  features  of 
my  late  companion.  Strange  to  say,  my 
effort  was  not  particularly  successful.  A 
white,  agonized  face  was  all  that  I  remem 
bered,  and  afterward  a  white,  senseless  face, 
belonging  to  a  prostrate  figure,  which  I  was 
trying  to  raise.  This  was  all.  What  that 
face  might  look  like  in  repose,  I  found  it 
impossible  to  conjecture. 

And  now  here  was  a  ridiculous  and  mor 
tifying  fact.  I  found  myself  haunted  by 
this  white  face  and  these  despairing  eyes, 
yet  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  reduce 
that  face  to  a  natural  expression  so  as  to 
learn  what  it  might  look  like  in  common 


32 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


life.  Should  I  know  her  again  if  I  met  her  ? 
I  could  not  say.  "Would  she  know  me  ?  I 
could  not  answer  that.  Should  I  ever  be 
able  to  find  her  ?  How  could  I  tell  ? 

Baffled  and  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  do 
toward  getting  the  identity  of  the  subject 
of  my  thoughts,  I  wandered  off  into  various 
moods.  First  I  became  cynical,  but,  as  I 
was  altogether  too  comfortable  to  be  mo 
rose,  my  cynicism  was  of  a  good-natured 
character.  Then  I  made  merry  over  my 
own  mishaps  and  misadventures.  Then  I 
reflected,  in  a  lofty,  philosophic  frame  of 
mind,  upon  the  faithlessness  of  woman, 
and,  passing  from  this  into  metaphysics, 
I  soon  boozed  off  into  a  gentle,  a  peace 
ful,  and  a  very  consoling  doze.  When  I 
awoke,  it  was  morning,  and  I  concluded  to 
go  to  bed. 

On  the  morrow,  at  no  matter  what  o'clock, 
I  had  just  finished  breakfast,  when  I  heard 
a  well-known  footstep,  and  Jack  Randolph 
burst  in  upon  me  in  his  usual  style. 

"  Well,  old  chap,"  he  cried,  "  where  the 
mischief  have  you  been  for  the  last  two 
days,  and  what  have  you  been  doing  with 
yourself  ?  I  heard  that  you  got  back  from 
Point  Levi — though  how  the  deuce  you  did 
it  I  can't  imagine — and  that  you'd  gone  off 
on  horseback  nobody  knew  where.  I've 
been  here  fifty  times  since  I  saw  you  last. 
Tell  you  what,  Macrorie,  it  wasn't  fair  to 
me  to  give  me  the  slip  this  way,  when  you 
knew  my  delicate  position,  and  all  that.  I 
can't  spare  you  for  a  single  day.  I  need 
your  advice.  Look  here,  old  fellow,  I've 
got  a  letter." 

And  saying  this,  Jack  drew  a  letter  from 
r  his  pocket,  with  a  grave  face,  and  opened 
it. 

So  taken  up  was   Jack  with  his  own 

affairs,  that  he  did  not  think  of  inquiring 

into  the  reasons  of  my  prolonged  absence. 

.   For  my  part,  I  listened  to  him  in  a  dreamy 


way,  and,  when  he  drew  out  the  letter,  it 
was  only  with  a  strong  effort  that  I  was 
able  to  conjecture  what  it  might  be.  So 
much  had  passed  since  I  had  seen  him, 
that  our  last  conversation  had  become  very 
dim  and  indistinct  in  my  memory. 

"  Oh,"  said  I,  at  last,  as  I  began  to  recall 
the  past,  "  the  letter— h'm— ah— the— the 
widow.  Oh,  yes,  I  understand." 

Jack  looked  a,t  me  in  surprise. 

"  The  widow  ?  "  said  he.  "  Pooh,  man  ! 
what  are  you  talking  about?  Are  you 

crazy  ?  This  is  from  her — from  Miss 

that  is — from  the  other  one,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  I,  confusedly.  "  True— 
I  remember.  Oh,  yes — Miss  Phillips." 

"Miss  Phillips!"  cried  Jack.  "Hang 
it,  man,  what's  the  matter  with  you  to-day  ? 
Haven't  I  told  you  all  about  it  ?  Didn't  I 
tell  you  what  I  wouldn't  breathe  to  another 
soul — that  is,  excepting  two  or  three  ? — 
and  now,  when  I  come  to  you  at  the  crisis 
of  my  fate,  you  forget  all  about  it." 

"Nonsense!"  said  I.  "The  fact  is,  I 
went  to  bed  very  late,  and  am  scarcely 
awake  yet.  Go  on,  old  boy,  I'm  all  right. 
Well,  what  does  she  say  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  you  know  what  you're 
talking  about,"  said  Jack,  pettishly. 

"  Nonsense  !  I'm  all  right  now ;  go  on." 

"  You  don't  know  who  this  letter  is 
from." 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  said  Jack,  watching  me 
with  jealous  scrutiny. 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  it's  that  other  one— the 
— hang  it !  I  don't  know  her  name,  so  I'll 
call  her  Number  Three,  or  Number  Four, 
whichever  you  like." 

"  You're  a  cool  hand,  any  way,"  said 
Jack,  sulkily.  "  Is  this  the  way  you  take 
a  matter  of  life  and  death  ?  " 

"  Life  and  death  ?  "  I  repeated. 

"Life  and  death!"  said  Jack.     "Yes, 


BY  ONE'S  OWN  FIKESIDE. 


33 


life  and  death.  "Why,  see  here,  Macrorie, 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't  believe  that  you've 
forgotten  every  word  I  told  you  about  my 
scrape.  If  that's  the  case,  all  I  can  say  is, 
that  I'm  not  the  man  to  force  my  confi 
dences  where  they  are  so  very  unimpor 
tant." 

And  Jack  made  a  move  toward  the  door. 
"  Stop,  Jack,"  said  I.  "  The  fact  is,  I've 
been  queer  for  a  couple  of  days.  I  had  a 
beastly  time  on  the  river.  Talk  about  life 
and  death  !  Why,  man,  it  was  the  narrow 
est  scratch  with  me  you  ever  saw.  I  didn't 
go  to  Point  Levi  at  all." 
"  The  deuce  you  didn't ! " 
"  No ;  I  pulled  up  at  Montmorency." 
"  The  deuce  you  did !  How's  that  ? " 
"Oh,  never  mind;  I'll  tell  you  some 
other  time.  At  any  rate,  if  I  seem  dazed 
or  confused,  don't  notice  it.  I'm  coming 
round.  I'll  only  say  this,  that  I've  lost  a 
little  of  my  memory,  and  am  glad  I  didn't 
lose  my  life.  But  go  on.  I'm  up  to  it 
now,  Jack.  You  wrote  to  Number  Three, 
proposing  to  elope,  and  were  staking  your 
existence  on  her  answer.  You  wished  me 
to  order  a  head-stone  for  you  at  Ander 
son's,  four  feet  by  eighteen  inches,  with 
nothing  on  it  but  the  name  and  date,  and 
not  a  word  about  the  virtues,  et  cetera. 
There,  you  see,  my  memory  is  all  right  at 
last.  And  now,  old  boy,  what  does  she 
say  ?  When  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  I  got  it  this  morning,"  said  Jack.  "  It 
was  a  long  delay.  She  is  always  prompt. 
Something  must  have  happened  to  delay 
her.  I  was  getting  quite  wild,  and  would 
have  put  an  end  to  myself  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Louie.  And  then,  you  know,  the 
widow's  getting  to  be  a  bit  of  a  bore. 
Look  here — what  do  you  think  of  my  sell 
ing  out,  buying  a  farm  in  Minnesota,  and 
taking  little  Louie  there  ?  " 

"  What !  "  I  cried,    "  Look  here,  Jack, 


whatever  you  do,  don't,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
get  poor  little  Louie  entangled  in  your  af 
fairs." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  fret,"  said  Jack,  dole 
fully.  "No  fear  about  her.  She's  all 
right,  so  far. — But,  see  here,  there's  the 
letter." 

And  saying  this,  he  tossed  over  to  me 
the  letter  from  "  Number  Three,"  and,  fill 
ing  a  pipe,  began  smoking  vigorously. 

The  letter  was  a  singular  one.  It  was 
highly  romantic,  and  full  of  devotion.  The 
writer,  however,  declined  to  accept  of  Jack's 
proposition.  She  pleaded  her  father ;  she 
couldn't  leave  him.  She  implored  Jack  to 
wait,  and  finally  subscribed  herself  his  till 
death.  But  the  name  which  she  signed 
was  "  Stella,"  and  nothing  more ;  and  this 
being  evidently  a  pet  name  or  a  nom  de 
plume,  threw  no  light  whatever  upon  her 
real  personality. 

"  Well,"  said  Jack,  after  I  had  read  it 
over  about  nine  times,  "  what  do  you  think 
of  that?" 

"  It  gives  you  some  reprieve,  at  any 
rate,"  said  I. 

"  Reprieve  ?  "  said  Jack.  "  I  don't  think 
it's  the  sort  of  letter  that  a  girl  should  write 
to  a  man  who  told  her  that  he  was  going 
to  blow  his  brains  out  on  her  doorstep.  It 
doesn't  seem  to  be  altogether  the  right  sort 
of  thing  under  the  circumstances." 

"  Why,  confound  it,  man,  isn't  this  the 
very  letter  that  you  wanted  to  get  ?  You 
didn't  really  want  to  run  away  with  her  ? 
You  said  so  yourself." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right ;  but  a  fellow  likes 
to  be  appreciated." 

"  So,  after  all,  you  wanted  her  to  elope 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  that,  exactly.  At  the  same 
time,  I  didn't  want  a  point-blank  refusal." 

"  You  ought  to  be  glad  she  showed  so 
much  sense.  It's  all  the  better  for  you. 


34 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


It  is  an  additional  help  to  you  in  your 
difficulties." 

"  I  don't  see  bow  it  helps  me,"  said  Jack, 
in  a  kind  of  growl.  "  I  don't  see  why  she 
refused  to  run  off  with  a  fellow." 

Now  such  was  the  perversity  of  Jack 
that  he  actually  felt  ill-natured  about  this 
letter,  although  it  was  the  very  thing  that 
he  knew  was  best  for  him.  He  was  cer 
tainly  relieved  from  one  of  his  many  difficul 
ties,  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  vexed  and 
mortified  at  this  rejection  of  his  proposal. 
And  he  dwelt  upon  his  disappointment  until 
at  length  he  brought  himself  to  believe  that 
"Number  Three's"  letter  was  something 
like  a  personal  slight,  if  not  an  insult. 

He  dropped  in  again  toward  evening. 

"  Macrorie,"  said  he,  "  there's  one  place 
•where  I  always  find  sympathy.  What  do 
you  say,  old  fellow,  to  going  this  evening 
to— 

CHAPTER    X. 

"  BERTON'S  ? — BEST  PLACE  IN  THE  TOWN. — 
GIRLS  ALWAYS  GLAD  TO  SEE  A  FELLOW. — 
PLENTY  OF  CHAT,  AND  LOTS  OF  FUN. — NO 
END  OF  LARKS,  YOU  KNOW,  AND  ALL  THAT 

SORT   OF  THING." 

IN  order  to  .get  rid  of  my  vexation,  mor 
tification,  humiliation,  and  general  aggrava 
tion,  I  allowed  Jack  to  persuade  me  to  go 
that  evening  to  Colonel  Berton's.  Not  that 
it  needed  much  persuasion.  On  the  con 
trary,  it  was  a  favorite  resort  of  mine.  Both 
of  us  were  greatly  addicted  to  dropping  in 
upon  that  hospitable  and  fascinating  house 
hold.  The  girls  were  among  the  most  live 
ly  and  genial  good  fellows  that  girls  could 
ever  be.  Old  Berton  had  retired  from  the 
army  with  enough  fortune  of  his  own  to 
live  in  good  style,  and  his  girls  had  it  all 
their  own  way.  They  were  essentially 


of  the  military  order.  They  had  all  been 
brought  up,  so  to  speak,  in  the  army,  and 
their  world  did  not  extend  beyond  it. 
There  were  three  of  them — Laura,  the  eld 
est,  beautiful,  intelligent,  and  accomplished, 
with  a  strong  leaning  toward  Ritualism; 
Nina,  innocent,  childish,  and  kitten-like; 
and  Louie,  the  universal  favorite,  absurd, 
whimsical,  fantastic,  a  desperate  tease,  and 
as  pretty  and  graceful  as  it  is  possible  for 
any  girl  to  be.  An  aunt  did  the  maternal 
for  them,  kept  house,  chaperoned,  duen- 
naed,  and  generally  overlooked  them.  The 
colonel  himself  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the 
vieux  militaire.  He  loved  to  talk  of  the  life 
which  he  had  left  behind,  and  fight  his  bat 
tles  over  again,  and  all  his  thoughts  were  in 
the  army.  But  the  girls  were,  of  course,  the 
one  attraction  in  his  hospitable  house.  The 
best  of  it  was,  they  were  all  so  accustomed 
to  homage,  that  even  the  most  desperate 
attentions  left  them  heart-whole,  in  maiden 
meditation,  fancy  free.  No  danger  of  over 
flown  sentiment  with  them.  No  danger  of 
blighted  affections  or  broken  hearts.  No 
nonsense  there,  my  boy.  All  fair,  and 
pleasant,  and  open,  and  above-board,  you 
know.  Clear,  honest  eyes,  that  looked 
frankly  into  yours  ;  fresh,  youthful  faces ; 
lithe,  elastic  figures  ;  merry  laughs  ;  sweet 
smiles ;  soft,  kindly  voices,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  In  short,  three  as  kind,  gentle, 
honest,  sound,  pure,  and  healthy  hearts  as 
ever  beat. 

The  very  atmosphere  of  this  delightful 
house  was  soothing,  and  the  presence  of 
these  congenial  spirits  brought  a  balm  to 
each  of  us,  which  healed  our  wounded 
hearts.  In  five  minutes  Jack  was  far  away 
out  of  sight  of  all  his  troubles — and  in 
five  minutes  more  I  had  forgotten  all  about 
my  late  adventure,  and  the  sorrows  that 
had  resulted  from  it. 

After  a  time,   Jack  gravitated  toward 


BEETON'S?" 


35 


Louie,  leaving  me  with  Laura,  talking  me 
dievalism.  Louie  was  evidently  taking 
Jack  to  task,  and  very  energetically  too. 
Fragments  of  their  conversation  reached 
my  ears  from  time  to  time.  She  had  heard 
something  about  Mrs.  Finnimore,  but  what 
it  was,  and  whether  she  believed  it  or  not, 
could  not  be  perceived  from  what  she  said. 
Jack  fought  her  off  skilfully,  and,  at  last, 
she  made  an  attack  from  another  quarter. 

"  Oh,  Captain  Randolph,"  said  she,  "  what 
a  delightful  addition  we're  going  to  have  to 
our  Quebec  society  1 " 

"  Ah  !  »  said  Jack,  "  what  is  that  ?  " 

"  How  very  innocent !  Just  as  if  you 
are  not  the  one  who  is  most  concerned." 

"  I  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     You.    Next  to  me." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Come,  now,  Captain  Randolph,  how 
very  ridiculous  to  pretend  to  be  so  igno 
rant  ! " 

"  Ignorant  ?  "  said  Jack ;  "  ignorant  is 
not  the  word.  I  am  in  Egyptian  darkness, 
I  assure  you."  ,  w  : 

"  Egyptian  darkness  —  Egyptian  non 
sense  !  Will  it  help  you  any  if  I  tell  you 
her  name  ?  " 

"  Her  name  !  Whose  name  ?  What 
*  her  ?  '  " 

Louie  laughed  long  and  merrily. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  at  length,  "  for  pure, 
perfect,  utter,  childlike  innocence,  commend 
me  to  Captain  Randolph  !  And  now,  sir," 
she  resumed,  "  will  you  answer  me  one 
question  ?  " 

"  Certainly — or  one  hundred  thousand." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  Miss  Phil 
lips  ?  " 

"I  think  she  is  a  very  delightful  per 
son,"  said  Jack,  fluently — "the  most  de 
lightful  I  have  ever  met  with,  present  com 
pany  excepted." 

"  That  is  to  be  understood,  of  course ; 


but  what  do  you  think  of  her  coming  to 
live  here  ?  " 

"  Coming  to  live  here !  " 

"Yes,  coming  to  live  here,"  repeated 
Louie,  playfully  imitating  the  tone  of  evi 
dent  consternation  with  which  Jack  spoke. 

"  What !     Miss  Phillips  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Miss  Phillips." 

"  Here  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Not  here  in  Quebec  ?  " 

"  Yes,  here  in  Quebec — but  I  must  say 
that  you  have  missed  your  calling  in  life. 
Why  do  you  not  go  to  New  York  and  make 
your  fortune  as  a.n  actor  ?  You  must  take 
part  in  our  private  theatricals  the  next  time 
we  have  any." 

"  I  assure  you,"  said  Jack,  "  I  never  was 
so  astonished  in  my  life." 

"  How  well  you  counterfeit ! "  said  Louie ; 
"  never  mind.  Allow  me  to  congratulate 
you.  We'll  overlook  the  little  piece  of  act 
ing,  and  regard  rather  the  delightful  fact. 
Joined  once  more — ne'er  to  part — hand  to 
hand — heart  to  heart — memories  sweet — 
ne'er  to  fade — all  my  own — fairest  maid ! 
And  then  your  delicious  remembrances  of 
Sissiboo." 

"  Sissiboo  ?  "  gasped  Jack. 

"  Sissiboo,"  repeated  Louie,  with  admir 
able  gravity.  "Her  birth-place,  and  hence 
a  sacred  spot.  She  used  to  be  called  '  the 
maid  of  Sissiboo.'  But,  in  choosing  a  place 
to  live  in,  let  me  warn  you  against  Sissiboo. 
Take  some  other  place.  You've  been  all 
over  New  Brunswick  and  Nova  Scotia. 
Take  Petitcodiac, :  or  Washe  Aemoak,  or 
Shubenacadie,  or  Memramcook,  or  Reche- 
b.ucto,  or  Chiputnecticook,  or  the  Kenne- 
becasis  Valley.  At  the  same  time,  I  have 
my  preferences  for  Piserinco,  or  Quaco." 

At  all  this,  Jack  seemed  for  a  time  com 
pletely  overwhelmed,  and  sat  listening  • to 
Louie  with  a  sort  of  imbecile  smile.  Her 


36 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


allusion  to  Miss  Phillips  evidently  troubled 
him,  and,  as  to  her  coming  to  Quebec,  he 
did  not  know  what  to  say.  Louie  twitted 
him  for  some  time  longer,  but  at  length  he 
got  her  away  into  a  corner,  where  he  began 
a  conversation  in  a  low  but  very  earnest 
tone,  which,  however,  was  sufficiently  audi 
ble  to  make  his  remarks  understood  by  all 
in  the  room. 

And  what  was  he  saying  ? 

He  was  disclaiming  all  intentions  with 
regard  to  Miss  Phillips. 

And  Louie  was  listening  quietly  ! 

Perhaps  believing  him  ! ! 

The  scamp  ! ! ! 

And  now  I  noticed  that  Jack's  unhappy 
tendency  to — well,  to  conciliate  ladies — was 
in  full  swing. 

Didn't  I  see  him,  then  and  there,  slyly  try 
to  take  poor  little  Louie's  hand,  utterly  for 
getful  of  the  disastrous  result  of  a  former 
attempt  on  what  he  believed  to  be  that 
same  hand  ?  Didn't  I  see  Louie  civilly  draw 
it  away,  and  move  her  chair  farther  off  from 
his  ?  Didn't  I  see  him  flush  up  and  begin 
to  utter  apologies  ?  Didn't  I  hear  Louie  be 
gin  to  talk  of  operas,  and  things  in  general ; 
and  soon  after,  didn't  I  see  her  rise  and 
come  over  to  Laura,  and  Nina,  and  me,  as 
we  were  playing  dummy  ?  Methinks  I  did. 
Oh,  Louie !  Oh,  Jack !  Is  she  destined 
to  be  Number  Four !  or,  good  Heavens ! 
Number  Forty?  Why,  the  man's  mad! 
He  engages  himself  to  every  girl  he  sees  ! 

Home  again. 

Jack  was  full  of  Louie. 

"  Such  fun  !  such  life !  Did  you  ever  see 
any  thing  like  her  ?  " 

"  But  the  widow,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Hang  the  widow  ! " 

"  Miss  Phillips  ?  " 

"  Bother  Miss  Phillips  !  " 

"  And  Number  Three  ?  " 

Jack's  face  grew  sombre,  and  he  was 


silent  for  a  time.  At  length  a  sudden 
thought  seized  him. 

"  By  Jove  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  got  a  let 
ter  to-day,  which  I  haven't  opened.  Ex 
cuse  me  a  moment,  old  chap." 

So  saying,  he  pulled  a  letter  from  his 
pocket,  opened  it,  and  read  it. 

He  told  me  the  contents. 

It  was  from  Miss  Phillips,  and  she  told 
her  dearest  Jack  that  her  father  was  about 
moving  to  Quebec  to  live. 

CHAPTER  XL 

"  MACRORIE,  MY  BOY,  HAVE  YOU  BEEN  TO 
ANDERSON'S  YET  ?  "  —  "  NO."  —  "  WELL, 
THEN,  I  WANT  YOU  TO  ATTEND  TO  THAT 

BUSINESS  OF  THE  STONE  TO-MORROW.  DON'T 
FORGET  THE  SIZE — FOUR  FEET  BY  EIGHTEEN 
INCHES ;  AND  NOTHING  BUT  THE  NAME  AND 
DATE.  THE  TIME'S  COME  AT  LAST.  THERE'S 
NO  PLACE  FOR  ME  BUT  THE  COLD  GRAVE, 
WHERE  THE  PENSIVE  PASSER-BY  MAY  DROP 
A  TEAR  OVER  THE  MOURNFUL  FATE  OF  JACK 
RANDOLPH.  AMEN.  R.  I.  P." 

SUCH  was  the  remarkable  manner  in 
which  Jack  Randolph  accosted  me,  as  he 
entered  my  room  on  the  following  day  at 
about  midnight.  His  face  was  more  rue 
ful  than  ever,  and,  what  was  more  strik 
ing,  his  clothes  and  hair  seemed  neglected. 
This  convinced  me  more  than  any  thing 
that  he  had  received  some  new  blow,  and 
that  it  had  struck  home. 

"  You  seem  hard  hit,  old  man,"  said  I. 
"Where  is  it?  Who  is  it?" 

Jack  groaned. 

"  Has  Miss  Phillips  come  ? " 

"No." 

"  Is  it  the  widow  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Number  Three,?" 

Jack  shook  his  head. 


"MACEOBIE,  MY  BOY,  HAVE  YOU  BEEN  TO  ANDEESON'S  YET?"   37 


"  Not  duns  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  give  up." 

"  It's  Louie,"  said  Jack,  with  an  expres 
sion  of  face  that  was  as  near  an  approxi 
mation  to  what  is  called  sheepishness  as 
any  thing  I  ever  saw. 

"  Louie  ?  "  I  repeated. 

«  Yes_" 

"  What  of  her  ?  What  has  she  been  do 
ing  ?  How  is  it  possible  f  Good  Heavens ! 
you  haven't — "  I  stopped  at  the  fearful 
suspicion  that  came  to  me. 

"Yes,  I  have!"  said  Jack,  sulkily.  "I 
know  what  you  mean.  I've  proposed  to 
her." 

I  started  up  from  the  sofa  on  which  I 
was  lounging — my  pipe  dropped  to  the 
ground — a  tumbler  followed.  I  struck  my 
clinched  fist  on  the  table. 

"  Kandolph  ! "  said  I,  "  this  is  too  much. 
Confound  it,  man  !  are  you  mad,  or  are  you 
a  villain?  What  the  devil  do  you  mean 
by  trifling  with  the  affections  of  that  little 
girl  ?  By  Heavens  !  Jack  Randolph,  if  you 
carry  on  this  game  with  her,  there's  not  a 
man  in  the  regiment  that  won't  join  to  crush 
you." 

"  Pitch  in,"  said  Jack  quietly,  looking  at 
me  at  the  same  time  with  something  like 
approval.  "  That's  the  right  sort  of  thing. 
That's  just  what  I've  been  saying  to  my 
self.  I've  been  swearing  like  a  trooper  at 
myself  all  the  way  here.  If  there's  any 
one  on  earth  that  every  fellow  ought  to 
stand  up  for,  it's  little  Louie.  And  now 
you  see  the  reason  why  I  want  you  to  at 
tend  to  that  little  affair  of  the  grave 
stone." 

At  Jack's  quiet  tone,  my  excitement  sub 
sided.  I  picked  up  my  pipe  again,  and 
thought  it  over. 

"  The  fact  is,  Jack,"  said  I,  after  about 
ten  minutes  of  profound  smoking,  "  I  think 


you'll  have  to  carry  out  that  little  plan  of 
yours.  Sell  out  as  soon  as  you  can,  and 
take  Louie  with  you  to  a  farm  in  Minne 
sota." 

"  Easier  said  than  done,"  said  Jack,  sen- 
tentiously. 

"Done?  why,  man,  it's  easy  enough. 
You  can  drop  the  other  three,  and  retire 
from  the  scene.  That'll  save  Louie  from 
coming  to  grief." 

"  Yes ;  but  it  won't  make  her  come  to 
Minnesota." 

"Why  not?  She's  just  the  girl  to  go 
anywhere  with  a  fellow." 

"  But  not  with  Jack  Randolph." 

"  What  humbug  are  you  up  to  now  ?  I 
don't  understand  you." 

"So  I  see,"  said  Jack,  dryly.  "You 
take  it  for  granted  that  because  I  pro 
posed,  Louie  accepted.  Whereas,  that 
didn't  happen  to  be  the  case.  I  proposed, 
but  Louie  disposed  of  me  pretty  effectu 
ally." 

"  Mittened  ?  "  cried  I. 

"  Mittened  ! "  said  Jack,  solemnly. 
"  Hence  the  gravestone." 

"  But  how,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  did 
that  happen  ?  " 

"Easily  enough.  Louie  happens  to 
have  brains.  That's  the  shortest  way  to 
account  for  her  refusal  of  my  very  valuable 
devotions.  But  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it, 
and,  after  that,  we'll  decide  about  the  head 
stone.  «  ' 

"  You  see,  I  went  up  there  this  evening, 
and  the  other  girls  were  off  somewhere, 
and  so  Louie  and  I  were  alone.  The  aunt 
was  in  the  room,  but  she  soon  dozed  off. 
Well,  we  had  great  larks,  no  end  of  fun — 
she  chaffing  and  twitting  me  about  no  end 
of  things,  and  especially  the  widow ;  so,  do 
you  know,  I  told  her  I  had  a  great  mind  to 
tell  her  how  it  happened ;  and  excited  her 
curiosity  by  saying  it  all  originated  in  a 


38 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


mistake.  This,  of  course,  made  her  wild 
to  know  all  about  it,  and  so  I  at  last  told 
her  the  whole  thing — the  mistake,  you 
know,  about  the  hand,  and  all  that — and 
my  horror.  Well,  hang  me,  if  I  didn't 
think  she'd  go  into  fits.  I  never  saw  her 
laugh  so  much  before.  As  soon  as  she 
could  speak,  she  began  to  remind  me  of  the 
approaching  advent  of  Miss  Phillips,  and 
asked  me  what  I  was  going  to  do.  She 
didn't  appear  to  be  at  all  struck  by  the  fact 
that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  my  disclosures ; 
that  it  was  her  own  hand  that  had  caused 
the  mischief,  but  went  on  at  a  wild  rate 
about  my  approaching  'sentimental  see 
saw,'  as  she  called  it,  when  my  whole  time 
would  have  to  be  divided  between  my  two 
fiancees.  She  remarked  that  the  old  prov 
erb  called  man  a  pendulum  between  a  smile 
and  a  tear,  but  that  I  was  the  first  true 
case  of  a  human  pendulum  which  she  had 
ever  seen. 

"  Now  the  little  scamp  was  so  perfectly 
fascinating  while  she  was  teasing  me,  that 
I  felt  myself  overcome  with  a  desperate 
fondness  for  her ;  so,  seeing  that  the  old 
aunt  was  sound  asleep,  I  blurted  out  all 
my  feelings.  I  swore  that  she  was  the 
only—" 

"  Oh,  omit  all  that.  I  know — but  what 
bosh  to  say  to  a  sensible  girl ! " 

"  Well,  you  know,  Louie  held  her  hand 
kerchief  to  her  face,  while  I  was  speaking, 
and  I — ass,  dolt,  and  idiot  that  I  was — felt 
convinced  that  she  was  crying.  Her  frame 
shook  with  convulsive  shivers,  that  I  took 
for  repressed  sobs.  '  I  saw  the  little  hand 
that  held  the  little  white  handkerchief  to 
her  face — the  same  slender  little  hand  that 
was  the  cause  of  my  scrape  with  Mrs.  Fin- 
nimore — and,  still  continuing  the  confession 
of  my  love,  I  thought  I  would  soothe  her 
grief.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  was  fairly  car 
ried  away.  I  reached  forward  my  hand, 


and  tried  to  take  hers,  all  the  time  saying 
no  end  of  spooney  things. 

;<  But  the  moment  I  touched  her  hand, 
she  rolled  her  chair  back,  and  snatched  it 
away — 

"  And  then  she  threw  back  her  head — 
"And  then  there  came  such  a  peal  of 
musical  laughter,  that  I  swear  it's  ringing 
in  my  ears  yet. 

"  What  made  it  worse  was,  not  merely 
what  she  considered  the  fun  of  my  pro 
posal,  but  the  additional  thought  that  sud 
denly  flashed  upon  her,  that  I  had  just  now 
so  absurdly  mistaken  her  emotion.  For, 
confound  it  all !  as  I  reached  out  my  hand, 
I  said  a  lot  of  rubbish,  and,  among  other 
things,  implored  her  to  let  me  wipe  her 
tears.  This  was  altogether  too  much. 
Wipe  her  tears  !  And,  Heavens  and  earth, 
she  was  shaking  to  pieces  all  the  time  with ' 
nothing  but  laughter.  Wipe  her  tears ! 
Oh,  Macrorie  !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such 
an  ass  ? 

"  Well,  you  know  she  couldn't  get  over  it 
for  ever  so  long,  but  laughed  no  end,  while 
I  sat  utterly  amazed  at  the  extent  to  which 
I  had  made  an  ass  of  myself.  However, 
she  got  over  it  at  last. 

"  « Well,'  said  I,  '  I  hope  you  feel  better.' 

"  *  Thanks,  yes ;  but  don't  get  into  a  tem 
per.  Will  you  promise  to  answer  me  one 
question  ? ' 

"  '  Certainly ;  most  happy.  If  you  think 
it  worth  while  to  do  any  thing  else  but 
laugh  at  me,  I  ought  to  feel  flattered.' 

" '  Now,  that's  what  I  call  temper,  and 
you  must  be  above  such  a  thing.  After 
all,  I'm  only  a  simple  little  girl,  and  you — 
that  is,  it  was  so  awfully  absurd.' 

"And  here  she  seemed  about  to  burst 
forth  afresh.  But  she  didn't. 

"  *  What  I  was  going  to  ask,'  she  be- 
gan,  in  a  very  grave  way,  '  what  I  was  go 
ing  to  ask  is  this,  If  it  is  a  fair  question, 


"MACKOKIE,  MY  BOY,  HAVE  YOU  BEEN  TO  ANDEKSON'S  YET?"   39 


how  many  of  these  little  entanglements  do 
you  happen  to  have  just  now  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  Louie  ! '  I  began,  in  mournful  and 
reproachful  tones. 

" '  Oh  don't,  don't,'  she  cried,  covering 
her  face,  '  don't  begin ;  I  can't  stand  it. 
If  you  only  knew  how  absurd  you  look 
when  you  are  sentimental.  You  are  al 
ways  so  funny,  you  know ;  and,  when  you 
try  to  be  solemn,  it  looks  so  awfully  ridicu 
lous!  Now,  don't — I  really  cannot  stand 
it.  Please — ple-e-e-e-e-ease  don't,  like  a 
good  Captain  Randolph.' 

"At  this  she  clasped  her  hands  and 
looked  at  me  with  such  a  grotesque  expres 
sion  of  mock  entreaty,  that  I  knocked  un 
der,  and  burst  out  laughing. 

"  She  at  once  settled  herself  comfortably 
in  her  easy-chair. 

"'Now  that's  what  I  call,'  said  she, 
placidly,  *  a  nice,  good,  sensible,  old-fash 
ioned  Captain  Randolph,  that  everybody 
loves,  and  in  whose  affairs  all  his  innumer 
able  friends  take  a  deep  interest.  And  now 
let  me  ask  my  question  again :  How  many  ? ' 

"  '  How  many  what  ?  '  said  I. 

"  '  Oh,  you  know  very  well.' 

" '  How  can  I  know,  when  you  won't  say 
what  you  mean  ? ' 

"  '  How  many  entanglements  ?  ' 

"  *  Entanglements  ? ' 

"  *  Yes.  Engagements,  if  you  wish  me  to 
be  so  very  explicit.' 

"  '  What  nonsense  !  Why  you  know  all 
about  it,  and  the  cause — ' 

"  *  Ah,  now,  that  is  not  frank ;  it  isn't 
friendly  or  honest,'  said  the  little  witch. 
*  Come,  now.  Are  there  as  many  as— as — 
fifty?' 

"'Nonsense!' 

"'Twenty,  then?' 

"  '  How  absurd  ! ' 

"'Ten?' 

"  c  Of  course  not,' 


'"Five? 
" '  No.' 


' '  Four  ? ' 
"  '  Why,  haven't  I  told  you  all  ? ' 


"  '  Four,'  she  persisted. 
"'No—' 


" '  Three,  then—' 

"  '  It  isn't  fair,'  said  I,  '  to  press  a  fellow 
this  way.' 

"  '  Three  ? '  she  repeated. 

"  I  was  silent.  I'm  not  very  quick,  and 
was  trying,  in  a  dazed  way,  to  turn  it  off. 

" '  Three ! '  she  cried.  '  Three  !  I  knew 
it.  Oh,  tell  me  all  about  it.  Oh,  do  tell 
me !  Oh,  do — please  tell  me  all.  Oh,  do, 
ple-e-e-e-ease  tell  me.' 

"  And  -then  she  began,  and  she  teased 
and  she  coaxed,  and  coaxed  and  teased,  un 
til  at  last—" 

Jack  hesitated. 

"  Well,"  said  I. 

"  Well,"  said  he. 

"  You  didn't  really  tell  her,"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  but  I  did,"  said  he. 

"  You  didn't— you  couldn't." 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  didn't ! " 

"  Not  about  Number  Three  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Number  Three,"  said  Jack,  look 
ing  at  me  with  a  fixed  and  slightly  stony 
stare. 

Words  were  useless,  and  I  sought  expres 
sion  for  my  feelings  in  the  more  emphatic 
whistle,  which  now  was  largely  protracted. 

"  And  how  did  she  take  it  ?  "  I  asked, 
at  length,  as  soon  as  I  found  voice  to 
speak. 

"  As  usual.  Teased  me,  no  end.  Allud 
ed  to  my  recent  proposal.  Asked  me  if  I 
had  intended  her  to  be  Number  Four,  and 
declared  her  belief  that  I  had  thirty  rather 
than  three.  Finally,  the  aunt  waked  up,  and 
wanted  to  know  what  we  were  laughing  at. 
Whereupon  Louie  said  that  she  was  laugh 
ing  at  a  ridiculous  story  of  mine,  about  an 


40 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


Indian  juggler  who  could  keep  three  or 
anges  in  the  air  at  the  same  time. 

"  '  Captain  Randolph,'  said  she  '  you  know 
all  about  Frederick  the  Great,  of  course  ? ' 

" '  Of  course,'  I  said,  '  and  Alexander  the 
Great  also,  and  Julius  Caesar,  and  Nebu 
chadnezzar,  as  the  poet  says.' 

" '  Perhaps  you  remember,'  said  Louie, 
in  a  grave  tone,  for  her  aunt  was  wide 
awake  now,  *  that  the  peculiar  excellence 
of  the  genius  of  that  great  monarch  con 
sisted  in  his  successful  efforts  to  encounter 
the  coalition  raised  against  him.  Though 
subject  to  the  attacks  of  the  three  united 
powers  of  France,  Austria,  and  Russia,  he 
was  still  able  to  repel  them,  and  finally 
rescued  himself  from  destruction.  Three 
assailants  could  not  overpower  him,  and 
surely  others  may  take  courage  from  his 
example.' 

"And  after  that  little  speech  I  came 
away,  and  here  I  am." 

For  some  time  we  sat  in  silence.  Jack 
did  not  seem  to  expect  any  remarks  from 
me,  but  appeared  to  be  rapt  in  his  own 
thoughts.  For  my  part,  I  had  nothing 
whatever  to  say,  and  soon .  became  equally 
rapt  in  my  meditations. 

And  what  were  they  about  ? 

What  ?  Why,  the  usual  subject  which 
had  filled  my  mind  for  the  past  few  days 
— my  adventure  on  the  river,  and  my  mys 
terious  companion.  Mysterious  though  she 
was,  she  was  evidently  a  lady,  and,  though 
I  could  not  be  sure  about  her  face,  I  yet 
could  feel  sure  that  she  was  beautiful.  So 
very  romantic  an  adventure  had  an  unusual 
charm,  and  this  charm  was  heightened  to 
a  wonderful  degree  by  the  mystery  of  her 
sudden  and  utter  disappearance. 

And  now,  since  Jack  had  been  so  very 
confidential  with  me,  I  determined  to  return 
that  confidence,  and  impart  my  secret  to 
him.  Perhaps  he  could  help  me.  At  any 


rate,  he  was  the  only  person  to  whom  I 
could  think  of  telling  it. 
So  you  see — 

CHAPTER  XII. 

MY  ADVENTURES  REHEARSED  TO  JACK  RAN 
DOLPH. — "MY  DEAR  FELLOW,  YOU  DON'T 
SAY  SO  !  " — "  'PON  MY  LIFE,  YES." — "  BY 
JOVE  !  OLD  CHAP,  HOW  CLOSE  YOU'VE 
BEEN  !  YOU  MUST  HAVE  NO  END  OF  SE 
CRETS.  AND  WHAT'S  BECOME  OF  THE  LA 
DY  ?  WHO  IS  SHE  ?  " 

WHO  is  she  ?  Ay.  Who,  indeed  ? 
Hadn't  I  been  torturing  my  brain  for  sev 
enty-nine  hours,  sleeping  as  well  as  waking, 
with  that  one  unanswered  and  apparently 
unanswerable  question  ? 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  repeated  Jack. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  that's  the  very  thing 
that  I  wish  to  find  out,  and  I  want  you  to 
help  me  in  it.  I  told  you  that  she  didn't 
leave  any  message — " 

"  But,  didn't  you  find  out  her  name  ?  " 

"No." 

"  By  Jove !  You're  a  queer  lot.  Why, 
I'd  have  found  out  her  name  the  first 
thing." 

"But  I  didn't — and  now  I  want  your 
help  to  find  out  not  only  her  name,  but 
herself." 

At  this  Jack  rose,  loaded  his  pipe  sol 
emnly,  and,  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  mak 
ing  preparations  for  a  work  of  no  common 
kind,  lighted  it,  flung  himself  back  in  the 
easy-chair,  and  sent  forth  vast  volumes  of 
smoke,  which  might  have  been  considered 
as  admirably  symbolical  of  the  state  of  our 
minds. 

"Well,  Macrorie,"  said  he,  at  last,  "I'll 
tell  you  what  I'd  do.  I'd  go  round  to  all 
the  hotels,  and  examine  the  lists." 

"Pooh!" 


MY  ADVENTURES  EEHEAKSED  TO  JACK  EANDOLPH. 


41 


"  Well,  then,  take  the  directory  and  hunt 
up  all  the  names." 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"  Why  *  nonsense  ? ' " 

"  Because  I  don't  know  her  name. 
Didn't  I  impress  that  upon  your  mind  ?  " 

"  By  Jove ! "  cried  Jack  Kandolph,  after 
which  he  again  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  See  here,  Macrorie,"  said  he,  at  length. 

"I  have  it." 

"What?" 

"  Go  round  next  Sunday  to  all  the  church 
es." 

"  What's  the  use  of  that  ?  " 

"  Go  round  to  the  churches,"  repeated 
Jack,  "  scan  every  bonnet — and  then,  if  you 
don't  see  her,  why  then,  why — go  to  the 
photographic  saloons.  You'll  be  sure  to 
find  her  picture  there.  By  Jove!  Why, 
Macrorie,  the  game's  all  in  your  own  hands. 
These  photographic  saloons  are  better  than 
a  whole  force  of  detective  police.  There's 
your  chance,  old  man.  You'll  find  her. 
Do  that,  and  you're  all  right.  Oh,  yes — 
you'll  find  her,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Jack 
Randolph." 

"No  go,  Jack,"  said  I.  "You  see  I 
couldn't  recognize  her  even  if  I  were  to 
see  her." 

"  Couldn't  what  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  recognize  her." 

"  You  surely  would  know  her  if  you  saw 
her." 

"I  don't  think  I  should." 

"  Well,  of  all  the  confounded  fixes  that 
ever  I  met  with,  this  is  the  greatest ! " 

"  That's  the  peculiarity  of  my  present 
situation." 

Jack  relapsed  into  smoky  silence. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Jack,  after  a  brief 
pause,  "  we've  got  to  go  to  work  systemat 
ically.  Now,  first  of  all,  I  want  to  know 
what  she  looks  like." 

"  Well,  that's  the  very  thing  I  don't  know." 


.  "  Nonsense !  You  must  know  something 
about  it.  Is  she  a  blonde  or  a  brunette  ? 
You  can  answer  that,  at  least." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  can." 

"  What !  don't  you  know  even  the  color 
of  her  complexion  ?  " 

"  When  I  saw  her,  she  was  as  white  as 
a  sheet.  Even  her  lips  were  bloodless. 
You  see,  she  was  frightened  out  of  her 
wits." 

"  Well,  then,  her  hair — her  hair,  man ! 
Was  that  dark  or  light  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  it." 

"Didn't  see  it?" 

"No.  You  see  it  was  covered  by  her 
hood.  Think  of  that  driving  sleet.  She 
had  to  cover  herself  up  as  much  as  she 
could  from  the  terrible  pelting  of  the 
storm." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  ask  only  one  question 
more,"  said  Jack,  dryly.  "  I  hope  you'll 
be  able  to  answer  it.  A  great  deal  depends 
upon  it.  In  fact,  upon  a  true  answer  to 
this  question  the  whole  thing  rests.  Gather 
up  all  your  faculties  now,  old  chap,  and 
try  to  answer  me  correctly.  No  shirking 
now — no  humbug,  for  I  won't  stand  it.  On 
your  life,  Macrorie,  and,  by  all  your  future 
hopes,  answer  me  this — was  your  friend — a 
woman  or  a  man  ?  " 

At  the  beginning  of  this  solemn  question, 
I  had  roused  myself  and  sat  upright,  but  at 
its  close  I  flung  myself  down  in  disgust. 

"  Well,"  said  Jack,  "  why  don't  you  an 
swer  ?  " 

"  Jack,"  said  I,  severely,  "  I'm  not  in  the 
humor  for  chaff." 

"  Chaff !  my  dear  fellow,  I  only  want  to 
get  a  basis  of  action — a  base  of  operations. 
Are  you  sure  your  friend  was  a  woman  ? 
I'm  in  earnest — really." 

"  That's  all  rubbish — of  course  she  was 
a  woman — a  lady — young — beautiful — but 
the  anguish  which  she  felt  made  her  face 


42 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


seem  like  that  of  Niobe,  or — or — well  like 
some  marble  statue  representing  woe  or 
despair,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  What's 
the  use  of  humbugging  a  fellow?  Why 
not  talk  sense,  or  at  least  hold  your 
tongue  ?  " 

"  Don't  row,  old  boy.  You  were  so  ut 
terly  in  the  dark  about  your  friend  that  I 
wanted  to  see  how  far  your  knowledge  ex 
tended.  I  consider  now  that  a  great  point 
is  settled,  and  \re  have  something  to  start 
from.  Yery  well.  She  was  really  a  wom 
an!" 

"  A  lady,"  said  I. 

"  And  a  lady,"  repeated  Jack. 

"  Young  ?  " 

"  Young." 

"And  beautiful  as  an  angel,"  I  inter 
posed,  enthusiastically. 

"  And  beautiful  as  an  angel,"  chimed  in 
Jack.  "  By-the-by,  Macrorie,  do  you  think 
you  would  know  her  by  her  voice  ?  " 

"  Well,  n— no,  I  don't  think  I  would. 
You  see,  she  didn't  say  much,  and  what 
she  did  say  was  wrung  out  of  her  by  ter 
ror  or  despair.  The  tones  of  that  voice 
might  be  very  different  if  she  were  talking 
about — well,  the  weather,  for  instance.  The 
voice  of  a  woman  in  a  storm,  and  in  the 
face  of  death,  is  not  exactly  the  same  in  tone 
or  modulation  as  it  is  when  she  is  quietly 
speaking  the  commonplaces  of  the  drawing- 
room." 

"  There's  an  immense  amount  of  truth  in 
that,"  said  Jack,  "  and  I  begin  to  under 
stand  and  appreciate  your  position." 

"  Never,  while  I  live,"  said  I,  earnestly, 
''will  I  forget  the  face  of  that  woman  as  I 
held  her  fainting  form  in  my  arms,  and 
cheered  her,  and  dragged  her  back  to  life  ; 
never  will  I  forget  the  thrilling  tones  of 
her  voice,  as  she  implored  me  to  leave  her 
and  save  myself ;  but  yet,  as  I  live,  I  don't 
think  that  I  could  recognize  her  face  or  her 


voice  if  I  were  to  encounter  her  now,  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  in  any  drawing- 
room.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Dimly,"  said  Jack ;  "  yes,  in  fact,  I  may 
say  thoroughly.  You  have  an  uncommonly 
forcible  way  of  putting  it  too.  I  say,  Ma 
crorie,  you  talk  just  like  our  chaplain." 

"  Oh,  bother  the  chaplain  !  " 

"  That's  the  very  thing  I  intend  to  do 
before  long." 

"  Well,  it'll  be  the  best  thing  for  you. 
Married  and  done  for,  you  know." 

"Nonsense!  I  don't  mean  that.  It's 
something  else — the  opposite  of  matrirao- 
ny." 

"  What  is  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  I'll  let  you  know  when 
the  time  comes.  It's  a  little  idea  of  my 
own  to  countermine  the  widow.  But  come 
— don't  let's  wander  off.  Your  business  is 
the  thing  to  be  considered  now — not  mine. 
Now  listen  to  me." 

"  Well." 

"  Let's  put  your  case  in  a  plain,  simple, 
matter-of-fact  way.  You  want  to  find  a 
person  whose  name  you  don't  know,  whose 
face  you  can't  recognize,  and  whose  voice 
even  is  equally  unknown.  You  -can't  give 
any  clew  to  her  at  all.  You  don't  know 
whether  she  lives  in  Quebec  or  in  New 
York.  You  only  know  she  is  a  woman  ?  " 

"A  lady,"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  of  course— a  lady." 

"And  an  English  lady,"  I  added.  "I 
could  tell  that  by  the  tone  of  her  voice." 

"  She  may  have  been  Canadian." 

"Yes.  Many  of  the  Canadian  ladies 
have  the  English  tone." 

"  Well,  that  may  be  all  very  true,"  said 
Jack,  after  some  moments'  thought ;  "  but 
at  the  same  time  it  isn't  any  guide  at  all. 
Macrorie,  my  boy,  it's  evident  that  in  this 
instance  all  the  ordinary  modes  of  investi 
gation  are  no  good.  Streets,  churches, 


ADVERTISING. 


43 


drawing-rooms,  photographic  saloons,  hotel 
registers,  directories,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  are  utterly  useless.  We  must  try 
some  other  plan." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  said  I,  "  but  what  other 
plan  can  be  thought  of?  " 

Jack  said  nothing  for  some  time. 

He  sat  blowing  and  puffing,  and  puffing 
and  blowing,  apparently  bringing  all  the 
resources  of  his  intellect  to  bear  upon 
this  great  problem.  At  last  he  seemed  to 
hit  upon  an  idea. 

"  I  have  it !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  have  it. 
It's  the  only  thing  left." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Macrorie,  my  boy,"  said  Jack,  with  an 
indescribable  solemnity,  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
we  must  do.    Let's  try — 
& 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
"ADVERTISING!!!" 

"  ADVERTISING  ?  "  said  I,  dubiously. 

"  Yes,  advertising,"  repeated  Jack.  "  Try 
it.  Put  a  notice  in  all  the  papers.  Begin 
with  the  Quebec  papers,  and  then  send  to 
Montreal,  Ottawa,  Toronto,  Hamilton,  King 
ston,  London,  and  all  the  other  towns. 
After  that,  send  notices  to  the  leading  pa 
pers  of  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore, 
Richmond,  St.  Louis,  New  Orleans,  Cincin 
nati,  Portland,  Chicago,  Boston,  and  all  the 
other  towns  of  the  United  States." 

"And  while  I'm  about  it,"  I  added,  "I 
may  as  well  insert  them  in  the  English, 
Irish,  Scotch,  French,  German,  Spanish, 
Italian,  Turkish,  and  Indian  journals." 

"Oh,  bosh!"  said  Jack,  "I'm  in  ear- 
nest.  What's  the  use  of  nonsense  ?  Real 
ly,  my  dear  fellow,  why  not  advertise  in 
the  Quebec  papers  ?  She'll  be  sure  to  see 
it." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  after  some  thought,  "  on 


the  whole  it  isn't  a  bad  idea.  It  can't 
do  any  harm  at  any  rate." 

"  Harm  ?  Why,  my  dear  boy,  it's  your 
only  chance." 

"  All  right,  then ;  let's  try  advertising." 

And  saying  this,  I  brought  out  my  entire 
writing-apparatus  and  displayed  it  on  the 
table. 

"  Will  you  try  your  fist  at  it,  Jack  ? "  I 
asked. 

"  I  ?  nonsense !  I'm  no  good  at  writing. 
It's  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  write  an 
'  I.  0.  U.,'  though  I've  had  no  end  of  prac 
tice.  And  then,  as  to  my  letters — you 
ought  to  see  them !  No,  go  ahead,  old 
boy.  You  write,  and  I'll  be  critic.  That's 
about  the  style  of  thing,  I  fancy." 

At  this  I  sat  down*  and  commenced  the 
laborious  task  of  composing  an  advertise 
ment.  In  a  short  time  I  had  written  out 
the  following : 

"A  gentleman  who  accompanied  a  lady 
across  the  ice  on  the  3d  of  April,  was  separated 
from  her,  and  since  then  has  been  anxious  to 
.find  out  what  became  of  her.  Any  infor 
mation  will  console  a  distracted  breast.  The 
gentleman  implores  the  lady  to  communicate 
with  him.  Address  Box  3,333." 

I  wrote  this  out,  and  was  so  very  well 
satisfied  with  it,  that  I  read  it  to  Jack.  To 
my  surprise  and  disgust,  he  burst  out  into 
roars  of  laughter. 

"  Why,  man  alive!"  he  cried,  "that  will 
never  do.  You  must  never  put  out  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know.  You'll  have  the 
whole  city  in  a  state  of  frantic  excitement. 
It's  too  rubbishy  sentimental.  No  go. 
Try  again,  old  man,  but  don't  write  any 
more  of  that  sort  of  thing." 

I  said  nothing.  I  felt  wounded;  but  I 
had  a  dim  idea  that  Jack's  criticism  was 
just.  It  was  rather  sentimental.  So  I 
tried  again,  and  this  time  I  wrote  out  some 
thing  very  different, 


44 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


With  the  following  result : 

"  If  the  party  who  crossed  tlie  ice  on  the  3d 
of  April  with  A.  Z.  will  give  her  address,  she 
will  confer  an  unspeakable  favor.  Write  to 
Box  No.  3,333." 

"  Oh,  that'll  never  do  at  all ! "  cried  Jack, 
as  I  read  it  to  him.  "  In  the  first  place, 
your  'A.  Z.'  is  too  mysterious;  and,  in 
the  second  place,  you  are  still  too  senti 
mental  with  your  l  unspeakable  favor.'  Try 
a^ain." 

I  tried  again,  and  wrote  the  following : 

"  A  gentleman  is  anxious  to  learn  the  ad 
dress  of  a  party  who  accompanied  him  over 
the  ice  on  the  od  of  April.  Address  Box  No. 


"  Oh,  that'll  never  do ! "  said  Jack. 

"Why  not?"        * 

"  Why,  man,  it's  too  cold  and  formal." 

"Hang  it  all!  What  will  suit  you  ?  One 
is  too  warm ;  another  is  too  cold." 

Saying  this,  I  tried  once  more,  and  wrote 
the  following : 

"  A.  B.  has  been  trying  in  vain  to  find  the 
address  of  the  party  who  accompanied  him 
over  the  ice  on  the  3d  of  April.  Will  she  have 
the  kindness  to  communicate  with  him  to  Box 
No.  3,333  ?  " 

"  No  go,"  said  Jack. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  you  call  her  a  '  party,' 
arid  then  announce  that  this  *  party '  is  a 
woman.  It  won't  do.  I  wouldn't  like  to 
call  any  lady  a  'party.'  You'll  have  to 
drop  that  word,  old  boy." 

At  this  I  flung  down  the  pen  in  de 
spair. 

"  Well,  hang  it ! "  said  I.  What  will  do  ? 
You  try  it,  Jack." 

"  Nonsense ! "  said  he.  "  I  can't  write ; 
I  can  only  criticise.  Both  faculties  are  very 
good  in  their  way.  You'll  have  to  start  from 
another  direction.  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do 
— try  a  roundabout  way." 


"  A  roundabout  way  ? "  I  repeated,  doubt 
fully. 

"  Yes." 

"  What's  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  advertise  for — let  me  see— oh, 
yes — advertise  for  the  French  driver.  He 
was  drowned — wasn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  if  you  advertise  for  him,  she  will 
respond,  and  thus  you  will  come  into  con 
tact  with  her  without  making  a  fool  of  your- 
self." 

"  By  Jove,  Jack,"  said  I,  "  that's  not  a 
bad  idea!  I  think  I  get  your  meaning. 
Of  course,  if  she  has  any  soul,  she'll  sym 
pathize  with  the  lost  driver.  But  what 
name  shall  I  put  ?  " 

"  Was  he  a  common  driver  ?  I  gathered 
this  from  your  story."  t 

"  Oh,  yes.  It  was  a  sleigh  from  the  coun 
try—hired,  you  know,  not  a  private  sleigh." 

"  She  couldn't  have  known  his  name, 
then  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  not.  It  looked  like  a  sleigh 
picked  up  hap-hazard  to  take  her  across." 

"  Well,  risk  it,  and  put  in  an  assumed 
name.  Make  up  something.  Any  name 
will  do.  The  lady,  I  dare  say,  hasn't  the 
smallest  idea  of  the  driver's  name.  Trot 
out  something — Napoleon  Bonaparte  Gris, 
or  any  thing  else  you  like." 

"  How  would  Lavoisier  do  ?  " 

"  Too  long." 

"  Well,  Noir,  then." 

"  I  don't  altogether  like  that." 

"Rollin." 

"  Literary  associations,"  objected  Jack. 

"  Well,  then,  Le  Verrier,"  said  I,  after  a 
moment's  thought. 

"  Le  Verrier — "  repeated  Jack.  "  Well, 
leave  out  the  article,  and  make  it  plain  Ver 
rier.  That'll  do.  It  sounds  natural." 

"  Verrier,"  said  I.  "  And  for  the  Chris 
tian  name  what  ?  " 


ADVERTISING  1  !  1 


45 


"  Paul,"  suggested  Jack. 

"Paul— very  well.  Paul  Verrier  —  a 
very  good  name  for  a  Canadian.  All  right. 
I'll  insert  an  advertisement  from  his  dis 
tracted  parent." 

And  I  wrote  out  this  : 

"  NOTICE.— Paul  Verrier,  of  Chaudiere, 
left  his  home  on  the  3d  of  April  last,  to  con 
vey  a  lady  to  Quebec  across  the  ice.  He  has 
not  since  been  heard  of.  As  the  river  broke 
up  on  that  day,  his  friends  are  anxious  to 
know  his  fate.  Any  one  who  can  give  any 
information  about  those  who  crossed  on  that 
date  will  confer  a  great  favor  on  his  afflict 
ed  father.  Address  Pierre  Verrier,  Box 
3,333." 

"That's  about  the  thing,"  said  Jack, 
after  I  had  read  it  to  him.  "  That'll  fetch 
her  down.  Of  course,  she  don't  know  the 
name  of  the  habitant  that  drove  her ;  and, 
of  course,  she'll  think  that  this  is  a  notice 
published  by  the  afflicted  father.  What 
then  ?  Why,  down  she  comes  to  the  res 
cue.  Afflicted  father  suddenly  reveals  him 
self  in  the  person  of  the  gallant  Macrorie. 
Grand  excitement — mutual  explanations — 
tableau — and  the  curtain  falls  to  the  sound 
of  light  and  joyous  music." 

"  Bravo,  Jack !  But  I  don't  like  to  set 
tle  my  affairs  this  way,  and  leave  yours  in 
disorder." 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Jack.  "  There's 
no  immediate  danger.  I'm  settling  down 
into  a  state  of  stolid  despair,  you  know.  If 
it  wasn't  for  that  last  business  with  Louie, 
I  could  be  quite  calm.  That's  the  only 
thing  that  bothers  me  now." 

"  I  should  think  the  widow  would  bother 
you  more." 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  she's  getting  to 
be  a  bit  of  a  bore.  She's  too  affectionate 
and  exigeante,  and  all  that,  you  know.  But, 
then,  I  always  leave  early.  I  dine  with  her 
at  seven,  and  get  away  before  nine.  Then 


I  go  to  Louie's — or,  at  least,  that's  the 
way  I  intend  to  do." 

"  You're  going  to  Louie's  again,  then  ?  " 

"  Going  to  Louie's  again  ?  Why,  man 
alive,  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  Going 
again?  I  should  think  I  was.  Why, 
Louie's  the  only  comfort  I  have  left  on 
earth." 

"  But  Number  Three  ?  " 

Jack  sighed. 

"  Poor  little  thing ! "  said  he.  "  She 
seems  to  be  rather  down  just  now.  I 
think  she's  regretting  that  she  didn't  take 
my  offer.  But  I  wrote  her  a  note  to-day, 
telling  her  to  cheer  up,  and  all  that." 

"But  Miss  Phillips?  What'll  you  do 
when  she  comes  ?  When  will  she  be 
here  ?  " 

"  She's  expected  daily." 

"  That  will  rather  complicate  matters — 
won't  it  ? " 

"  Sufficient  for  the  day,"  said  Jack. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  boy.  I  feel 
very  much  struck  by  Louie's  idea  about  the 
three  oranges.  You'll  find  it  precious 
hard  to  keep  your  three  affairs  in  motion. 
You  must  drop  one  or  two." 

"  Come,  now,  Macrorie — no  croaking. 
You've  got  me  into  a  placid  state  of  mind 
by  telling  me  of  your  Iktle  affair.  It  gave 
me  something  to  think  of  besides  my  own 
scrapes.  So  don't  you  go  to  work  and 
destroy  the  good  effect  that  you've  pro 
duced.  For  that  matter,  I  won't  let  you. 
I'm  off,  old  chap.  It's  fifteen  minutes  to 
three.  You'd  better  seek  your  balmy  couch. 
No— don't  stop  me.  You'll  croak  me  into 
despair  again.  Good-night,  old  man !  " 


46 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  CONCERT. — A  SINGULAR  CHARACTER. — "  GOD 
SATE  THE  QUEEN." — A  FENIAN. — A  GENE 
RAL  ROW. — MACRORIE  TO  THE*  RESCUE  ! — 

MACRORIE'S  MAIDEN  SPEECH,  AND  ITS  SIN 
GULAR  EFFECTIVENESS.  —  O'HALLORAN.  —  A 
STRANGE  COMPANION.  —  INVITED  TO  PAR 
TAKE  OF  HOSPITALITY. 

ON  the  following  day  I  sent  iny  notice  to 
the  papers. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day  there  was  to 
be  a  concert.  Everybody  was  going.  It 
was  under  the  patronage  of  the  military, 
and  of  course  everybody  had  to  go.  For 
you  must  know  that,  in  a  garrison-town  like 
Quebec,  we  of  the  military  order  have  it  all 
our  own  way.  If  we  smile  on  an  undertak 
ing,  it  succeeds.  If  we  don't,  it  languishes. 
If  we  frown,  the  only  result  is  ruin.  But, 
as  we  are  generally  a  good-natured  lot,  we 
smile  approvingly  on  almost  every  thing. 
It  gets  to  be  an  awful  bore ;  but  what  can 
we  do  ?  Societies  wish  our  countenance 
at  their  public  gatherings,  and  we  have  to 
give  it.  Benevolent  associations  ask  our 
subscriptions  ;  joint-stock  companies  wish 
our  names ;  missionaries  and  musicians, 
lawyers  and  lecturers,  printers  and  preach 
ers,  tailors  and  teachers,  operas  and  orato 
rios,  balls  and  Bible-meetings,  funerals  and 
festivities,  churches  and  concerts — in  short, 
every  thing  that  lives  and  moves  and  has  its 
being  awaits  the  military  smile.  And  the 
smile  is  smiled.  And  so,  I  tell  you  what 
it  is,  my  dear  fellow,  it  amounts  to  this, 
that  the  life  of  an  officer  isn't  by  any  means 
the  butterfly  existence  that  you  imagine  it 
to  be.  What  with  patronizing  Tom,  Dick, 
and  Harry,  inspecting  militia,  spouting  at 
volunteers,  subscribing  to  charities,  buying 
at  bazaars,  assisting  at  concerts,  presiding 


at  public  dinners,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing 
no  end,  it  gets  to  be  a  pretty  difficult  mat 
ter  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 

The  concert  under  consideration  hap 
pened  to  be  a  popular  one.  The  best  of 
the  regimental  bands  had  been  kindly  lent 
to  assist,  and  there  were  songs  by  amateurs 
who  belonged  to  the  first  circles  in  Quebec, 
both  civil  and  military.  It  was  quite  a 
medley,  and  the  proceeds  were  intended  for 
some  charitable  purpose  or  other.  The 
house  was  crowded,  and  I  could  not  get  a 
seat  without  extreme  difficulty. 

The  concert  went  on.  They  sang  "  An 
nie  Laurie,"  of  course.  Then  followed  "  La 
ci  darem;"  then  "  D'un  Pescator  Igno- 
bile;"  then  "Come  gentil;";  then  "Auld 
Lang-syne ; "  then  "  Ah,  mon  Fils ! "  then 
"  Roy's  Wife  of  Aldivalloch ; "  then  "  The 
Last  Rose  of  Summer;"  then  " Allister 
MacAllister ; "  then  "  The  Harp  that  once 
through  Tara's  Halls." 

As  this  last  song  was  being  sung,  I  be 
came  aware  of  an  old  gentleman  near  me 
who  seemed  to  be  profoundly  affected. 
"  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer  "  had  evident 
ly  touched  him,  but  Tara  had  an  overpower 
ing  effect  on  him.  It  was  sung  confound 
edly  well,  too.  The  band  came  in  with  a 
wild,  wailing  strain,  that  was  positively 
heart-breaking.  The  party  just  mentioned 
was,  as  I  said,  old,  and  a  gentleman,  but  he 
was  tall,  robust,  broad-shouldered,  with 
eagle-like  beak,  and  keen  gray  eyes  that 
were  fitting  accompaniments  to  so  distin 
guished  a  feature.  His  dress  was  rather 
careless,  but  his  air  and  the  expression  of 
his  face  evinced  a  mixture  of  eccentricity 
and  a  sense  of  superiority.  ,At  least,  it 
had  evinced  this  until  the  singing  of  Tara. 
Then  he  broke  down.  First  he  bowedTiis 
head  down,  resting  his  forehead  upon  his 
hands,  which  were  supported  by  his  cane, 
and  several  deep-drawn  sighs  escaped  him. 


A  FENIAN. 


Then  he  raised  his  head  again,  and  looked 
up  at  the  ceiling  with  an  evident  effort  to 
assume  a  careless  expression.  Then  he 
again  hid  his  face.  But  the  song  went  on, 
and  the  melancholy  wail  of  the  accompani 
ment  continued,  and  at  last  the  old  gentle 
man  ceased  to  struggle,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  the  influence  of  that  wonderful  music. 
He  sat  erect  and  rigid  ;  his  hands  in  front 
of  him  clasped  tightly  round  his  stick ;  and 
his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy  ;  and  as  I  looked 
at  him  I  saw  big  tears  slowly  coursing  down 
his  cheeks. 

At  length  the  song  ceased,  and  he  im 
patiently  dashed  his  tears  away,  and  looked 
furtively  and  suspiciously  around,  as  though 
trying  to  see  if  any  one  had  detected  his 
weakness.  I,  of  course,  looked  away,  so 
that  he  had  not  the  smallest  reason  for  sup 
posing  that  I  had  seen  him. 

After  this  the  concert  went  on  through 
a  varied  collection  of  pieces,  and  all  the 
time  I  wondered  who  the  old  gentleman 
with  the  eagle  face  and  tender  sensibilities 
might  be.  And  in  this  state  of  wonder  I 
continued  until  the  close. 

At  last  came  the  usual  concluding  piece 
— "  God  save  the  Queen." 

Of  course,  as  everybody  knows,  when  the 
national  anthem  is  sung,  it  is  the  fashion 
all  over  the  British  empire  for  the  whole 
audience  to  rise,  and  any  one  who  remains 
seated  is  guilty  of  a  deliberate  insult  to  the 
majesty  of  that  empire.  On  this  occasion, 
as  a  matter  of  course,  everybody  got  up, 
but  I  was  surprised  to  see  that  the  old  gen 
tleman  remained  seated,  with  his  hands 
clinched  tightly  about  his  cane. 

I  was  not  the  only  one  who  had  noticed 
this. 

The  fact  is,  I  had  got  into  a  part  of  the 
hall  which  was  not  altogether  congenial  to 
my  taste.  I  had  got  my  ticket  at  the  door, 
and  found  that  all  the  reserved  seats  were 


taken  up.  Consequently  I  had  to  take  my 
chance  among  the  general  public.  Now 
this  general  public  happened  to  be  an  aw 
fully  loyal  public,  and  the  moment  they 
found  that  a  man  was  among  them  who 
deliberately  kept  his  seat  while  the  national 
anthem  was  being  sung,  they  began  to  get 
into  a  furious  state  of  excitement, 

Let  me  say  also  that  there  was  very  suf 
ficient  reason  for  this  excitement.  All 
Canada  was  agog  about  the  Fenians. 
Blood  had  been  shed.  An  invasion  had 
taken  place.  There  was  no  joke  about  it. 
The  Fenians  were  not  an  imaginary  danger, 
but  a  real  one.  All  the  newspapers  were 
full  of  the  subject.  By  the  Fenians  every 
Canadian  understood  an  indefinite  number 
of  the  disbanded  veteran  soldiers  of  the 
late  American  war,  who,  having  their  hand 
in,  were  not  willing  to  go  back  to  the  mo 
notony  of  a  peaceful  life,  but  preferred 
rather  a  career  of  excitement.  Whether 
this  suspicion  were  well  founded  or  not 
ddesn't  make  the  slightest  difference.  The 
effect  on  the  Canadian  mind  was  the  same 
as  if  it  were  true.  Now,  since  the  Canadian 
mind  was  thus  roused  up  to  this  pitch  of  uni 
versal  excitement,  there  existed  a  very  gen 
eral  watch  for  Fenian  emissaries,  and  any 
of  that  brotherhood  who  showed  himself  too 
openly  in  certain  quarters  ran  a  very  serious 
risk.  It  was  not  at  all  safe  to  defy  popu 
lar  opinion.  And  popular  opinion  ran 
strongly  toward  the  sentiment  of  loyalty. 
And  anybody  who  defied  that  sentiment  of 
loyalty  did  it  at  his  peril.  A  serious  peril, 
too,  mind  you.  A  mob  won't  stand  non 
sense.  It  won't  lioten  to  reason.  It  has 
a  weakness  for  summary  vengeance  and 
broken  bones. 

Now,  some  such  sort  of  a  mob  as  this 
began  to  gather  quickly  and  menacingly 
round  my  elderly  friend,  who  had  thus 
so  rashly  shocked  their  common  senti- 


48 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


ment.  In  a  few  moments  a  wild  uproar 
began. 

"  Put  him  out ! " 

"  Knock  him  down ! " 

"  Hustle  him ! " 

"  He's  a  Fenian ! " 

"  Down  with  him  ! " 

"  Punch  his  head !  " 

"Hold  him  up,  and  make  him  stand 
up!" 

"  Stand  up,  you  fool ! " 

"  Get  up  !  " 

"  Up  with  him !  Let's  pass  him  out  over 
our  heads !  " 

"A  Fenian!" 

"  We'll  show  him  he's  in  bad  company ! " 

"  He's  a  spy ! " 

"  A  Fenian  spy  !  " 

"  Up  with  him ! "  "  Down  with  him  1 " 
"Pitch  into  him!"  "Out  with  him!" 
"Toss  him!"  "Hustle  him!"  "Punch 
his  head!"  "Throttle  him!"  "Level 
him !  "  "  Give  it  to  him ! "  "  Turn  him 
inside  out!"  "Hold  up  his  boots!" 
"Walk  him  off!" 

All  these,  and  about  fifty  thousand  more 
shouts  of  a  similar  character,  burst  forth 
from  the  maddened  mob  around.  All 
mobs  are  alike.  Any  one  who  has  ever 
seen  a  mob  in  a  row  can  understand  the 
action  of  this  particular  one.  They  gath 
ered  thick  and  fast  around  him.  They 
yelled.  They  howled.  The  music  of  the 
national  anthem  was  drowned  in  that  wild 
uproar.  They  pressed  close  to  him,  and 
the  savage  eyes  that  glared  on  him  menaced 
him  with  something  little  less  than  death  it 
self. 

And  what  did  he  do  ? 

He? 

Why  he  bore  himself  splendidly. 

As  the  row  began,  he  rose  slowly,  hold 
ing  his  stick,  which  I  now  saw  to  be  a 
knotted  staff  of  formidable  proportions, 


and  at  length  reared  his  figure  to  its  full 
height.  It  was  a  tall  and  majestic  figure 
which  he  revealed — thin,  yet  sinewy,  and 
towering  over  the  heads  of  the  roaring 
mob  around  him. 

He  confronted  them  all  with  a  dark  frown 
on  his  brow,  and  blazing  eyes. 

"Ye  beggars!"  he  cried.  "Come  on— 
the  whole  pack  of  ye !  A  Fenian,  ye  say  ? 
That's  thrue  for  you.  Ye've  got  one,  an' 
ye'll  find  him  a  tough  customer !  Come  on 
— the  whole  thousand  of  ye ! " 

And  saying  this,  he  swung  his  big,  for 
midable  knotted  stick  about  his  head. 

Those  nearest  him  started  back,  but  the 
crowd  behind  rushed  forward.  The  row 
increased.  The  people  in  the  reserved 
seats  in  front  looked  around  with  anxious 
eyes',  not  knowing  what  was  going  on. 

The  crowd  yelled  and  hooted.  It  surged 
nearer.  A  moment  more  and  the  tall  figure 
would  go  down. 

Now,  I'm  a  loyal  man.  None  more  so. 
I'm  an  officer  and  a  gentleman.  I'm  ready 
at  any  moment  to  lay  down  my  life  for  the 
queen  and  the  rest  of  the  royal  family. 
I'm  ready  to  pitch  into  the  Fenians  on  any 
proper  occasion,  and  all  that. 

But  somehow  this  didn't  seem  to  me  to 
be  the  proper  occasion.  It  was  not  a  Fe 
nian  that  I  saw.  It  was  an  elderly  gentle 
man  ;  so  sensitive,  that  but  a  few  minutes 
before  he  had  been  struggling  with  his 
tears ;  so  lion-hearted,  that  now  he  drew 
himself  up  and  faced  a  roaring,  howling 
mob  of  enemies — calmly,  unflinchingly — 
hurling  desperate  defiance  at  them.  And 
was  that  the  sort  of  thing  that  I  could 
stand  ?  What !  to  see  one  man  attacked 
by  hundreds — a  man  like  that,  too — an  old 
man,  alone,  with  nothing  to  sustain  him  but 
his  own  invincible  pluck  ?  Pooh  !  what's 
the  use  of  talking  ?  I  am  an  officer  and  a 
gentleman,  and  as  such  it  would  have  been 


A  FENIAN. 


49 


a  foul  disgrace  to  me  if  I  had  been  capable 
of  standing  there  quietly  and  looking  at  the 
old  man  at  the  mercies  of  the  mob. 

But,  as  it  happened,  I  did  nothing  of  the 
kind. 

On  the  contrary,  I  sprang  forward  and 
stood  by  the  side  of  the  old  man. 

"  Now,  look  here — you  fellows !  "  I  roared 
— "  this  is  all  very  fine,  and  very  loyal,  but, 
damn  it !  don't  it  strike  you  that  it's  an  in 
fernally  cowardly  thing  to  pitch  into  an  old 
man  in  this  style  ?  He  may  be  a  Fenian, 
and  he  may  be  Old  Nick  himself,  but  he's 
never  done  you  fellows  any  harm.  What 
the  devil  do  you  mean  by  kicking  up  such 
a  row  as  this  ?  You  touch  him,  if  you 
dare,  that's  all !  You  see  my  uniform,  and 
you  know  what  I  am.  I'm  a  Bobtail.  This 
man  is  my  friend.  He's  going  out  with  me, 
and  I'd  like  to  see  the  fellow  that  will  stop 
us." 

That's  the  first  speech  I  ever  made  in  my 
life,  and  all  that  I  can  say  is,  that  it  was 
wonderfully  successful.  Demosthenes,  and 
Cicero,  and  the  Earl  of  Chatham,  and  Burke, 
and  Mirabeau,  all  rolled  into  one,  couldn't 
have  been  more  successful.  The  mob  rolled 
back.  They  looked  ashamed.  It  was  a 
word  of  sense  spoken  in  a  forcible  manner. 
And  that  I  take  it  is  the  essence  of  true  ora 
tory. 

The  mob  rolled  back.  I  gave  my  new 
friend  my  arm.  He  took  it.  The  door  was 
not  far  away.  We  started  to  go  out.  The 
people  fell  back,  and  made  way  for  us. 
After  all,  they  were  a  good-enough  lot,  and 
had  only  yielded  to  a  kind  of  panic.  All 
mobs,  I  suppose,  are  insane.  The  very 
fact  of  a  mob  involves  a  kind  of  temporary 
insanity.  But  these  fellows  had  come  to 
their  senses,  and  so  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
making  my  way  through  them  along  with 
my  companion.  We  got  out  into  the 
street  without  any  difficulty.  My  new 
4 


friend  held  my  arm,  and  involuntarily  made 
a  turn  to  the  right  on  leaving  the  door  of 
the  hall.  Thus  we  walked  along,  and  for 
some  time  we  walked  in  silence. 

At  length  the  silence  was  broken  by  my 
companion. 

«  Well— well— well !"  he  ejaculated— 
"to  think  of  me,  walking  with  a  British 
officer — arrum-in-arrum  !  " 

"Why  not?"  said  I. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  he,  "  why  there's  iviry 
reason  in  loife.  I'm  a  Fenian." 

"Pooh!"  said  I,  "what's  the  use  of 
bothering  about  politics  ?  You're  a  man, 
and  a  confoundedly  plucky  fellow  too.  Do 
you  think  that  I  could  stand  there  and  see 
those  asses  pitching  into  you?  Don't 
bother  about  politics.^ 

"An'  I  won't"  said  he.  "But  at  any 
reet,  I  feeced  them.  An  Oirishman  niver 
sirrinders  to  an  inimy.  I  feeced  them,  I  did 
— an'  I  exprissed  meself  in  shootable  sinti- 
mints." 

The  rich  Leinster  accent  of  my  compan 
ion  showed  his  nationality  more  plainly  than 
even  his  own  explicit  statement.  But  this 
did  not  at  all  lessen  the  interest  that  I  took 
in  him.  His  sensitiveness  which  had  been 
so  conspicuous,  his  courage  which  had  shone 
so  brightly,  and  his  impressive  features,  all 
combined  to  create  a  feeling  of  mingled 
regard  and  respect  for  my  new  acquain 
tance. 

"  By  Jove ! "  I  cried,  "  I  never  saw  a 
pluckier  fellow  in  my  life.  There  you  were, 
alone,  with  a  mad  mob  howling  at  you." 

"  It's  meself,"  said  he,  "  that'll  nivir  be 
intimideeted.  Don't  I  know  what  a  mob 
is  ?  An'  if  I  didn't,  wouldn't  I  feece  thim 
all  the  seeme  ?  An'  afther  all  I  don't  moind 
tellin'  you  that  it  wasn't  disrispict.  It  was 
only  a  kind  of  absthraction,  an'  I  wasn't 
conscious  that  it  was  the  national  anthim, 
so  I  wasn't.  I'd  have  stood  up,  if  I'd 


50 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


knowed  it.  But  whin  those  divils  began 
reelin'  at  me,  I  had  to  trait  thim  with 
scarrun  and  ^  contimpt.  An'  for  me — I 
haven't  much  toime  to  live,  but  what  I  have 
ye've  seeved  for  me." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  don't  talk  about  that," 
said  I,  modestly. 

"  Sorr,"  said  he,  "  I'm  very  well  aware 
that  I'm  under  deep  obleegeetions,  an'  I 
owe  ye  a  debt  of  grateechood.  Conse- 
quintly,  I  insist  on  bein'  greetful.  I  hold 
iviry  British  officer  as  me  personal  inimy ; 
but,  in  you,  sorr,  I'm  sinsible  of  a  ginirous 
frind.  Ye've  seeved  me  loife,  so  ye  have, 
an'  there's  no  doubt  about  it.  We'll  weeve 
politics.  I  won't  spake  of  the  Finians. 
Phaylim  O'Halloran  isn't  the  man  that'll 
mintion  onsaisonable  politics,  or  dwell  upon 
uncongainal  thames,  so  he  isn't." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  Mr.  O'Halloran,  since 
you've  introduced  yourself,  I  must  give 
you  my  humble  address.  I'm  Lieutenant 
Macrorie." 

"  Macrorie  ?  "  said  he. 

"Macrorie,"  said  I,  "of  the  Bobtails, 
and  I  assure  you  I'm  very  happy  to  make 
your  acquaintance." 

We  walked  along  arm-in-arm  in  the  most 
friendly  manner,  chatting  about  things  in 
general.  I  found  my  companion  to  be  very 
intelligent  and  very  well  informed.  He  had 
travelled  much.  He  expressed  himself 
fluently  on  every  subject,  and  though  his 
brogue  was  conspicuous,  he  was  evidently 
a  gentleman,  and  very  well  educated  too. 
I  gathered  from  his  conversation  that  he 
had  studied  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and 
that  he  had  been  leading  a  desultory  sort 
of  life  in  the  United  States  for  twenty  years 
or  so.  He  had  been  in  Canada  for  some 
thing  less  than  a  year,  and  was  anxious  to 
get  back  to  a  more  southern  clime. 

Chatting  thus,  and  arm-in-arm,  we  walked 
along.  I  had  nothing  to  do,  and  so  I  went 


with  my  new-found  friend,  with  a  vague  idea 
of"  seeing  him  safe  home.  Of  course  such 
an  idea  was  preposterous,  for  he  could  have 
got  home  just  as  well  without  me,  but  I 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  my  new  acquaintance, 
and  found  a  strange  charm  in  his  conversa 
tion.  He  talked  incessantly  and  on  many 
subjects.  He  discoursed  on  theology,  lite 
rature,  science,  the  weather,  the  army,  the 
navy,  music,  painting,  sculpture,  photog 
raphy,  engraving,  geology,  chemistry,  and 
on  a  thousand  other  arts  and  sciences,  in 
all  of  which  he  showed  himself  deeply 
versed,  and  far  beyond  my  depth.  He  had 
a  brogue,  and  I  had  none,  but  as  for  intel 
lectual  attainments  I  was  only  a  child  in 
comparison  with  him. 

At  length  we  reached  a  house  where  he 
stopped. 

"  I'm  infeenetely  obloiged  to  ye,"  said 
he.  "And  now,  won't  ye  koindly  condi- 
scind  to  step  in  and  parteek  of  me  hospi- 
talitee  ?  It'll  give  me  shuprame  deloight." 

After  such  an  invitation  what  could  I 
say  ?  I  had  nothing  to  do.  Accordingly, 
I  accepted  it  in  a  proper  spirit,  and,  thank 
ing  him  for  his  kind  invitation,  I  went  in 
along  with  him. 

O'Halloran  led  the  way  in.  It  was  a 
comfortable  house.  The  parlor  which  we 
entered  was  large,  and  a  huge  grate  filled 
with  blazing  coals  diffused  a  cheerful  glow. 
Magazines  and  periodicals  lay  on  the  table. 
Pictures  illustrative  of  classical  scenes  hung 
round  the  walls,  done  in  the  old-fashioned 
style  of  line  engraving,  and  representing 
such  subjects  as  Mutius  Scsevola  before 
Porsenna  ;  Belisarius  begging  for  an  obo- 
lus  ;  ^Eneas  carrying  his  father  from  Troy  ; 
Leonidas  at  Thermopylae ;  Coriolanus  quit 
ting  Rome  ;  Hamilcar  making  the  boy  Han 
nibal  swear  his  oath  of  hate  against  Rome ; 
and  others  of  a  similar  character.  O'Hal 
loran  made  me  sit  in  a  "sleepy-hollow" 


Leedies,'   said   O'Halloran,    '  allow   me  to   inthrojuice  to  ye   Captain   Macrorie.'  " — page  bl. 


THE  O'HALLOEAN  LADIES. 


51 


easy-chair  by  the  fire.  Beside  me  were  two 
huge  book-shelves  crammed  with  books.  A 
glance  at  them  showed  me  that  they  were 
largely  of  a  classical  order.  Longinus, 
JEschylus,  Demosthenes,  Dindorf,  Plato, 
Stallbaum — such  were  the  names  that  I 
saw  in  gilt  letters  on  the  backs  of  the  vol 
umes. 

About  the  room  there  was  that  air  of 
mingled  comfort  and  refinement  that  is 
always  suggestive  of  the  presence  of  ladies. 
A  work-basket  stood  beside  the  table.  And 
on  a  little  Chinese  table  in  a  corner  lay  some 
crochet-work.  I  took  in  all  these  things  at 
a  glance  and  while  my  host  was  talking  to 
me.  After  a  time  he  excused  himself  and 
said  that  he  would  call  the  "  leedies."  He 
retired,  leaving  me  alone,  and  striving  to 
picture  to  myself — 

CHAPTER  XY. 

THE  O'HALLORAN  LADIES. — THEIR  APPEAR 
ANCE. — THEIR  AGES.— THEIR  DRESS. — THEIR 
DEMEANOR. — THEIR  CULTURE,  POLISH,  EDU 
CATION,  RANK,  STYLE,  ATTAINMENTS,  AND 
ALL  ABOUT  THEM. 

"  LEEDIES,"  said  O'Halloran,  "  allow  me 
to  inthrojuice  to  ye  Captain  Macrorie,  an 
officer  an'  a  gintlemin,  an'  when  I  steet 
that  he  seeved  me  life  about  a  half  an  hour 
ago,  ye'll  see  what  sintimints  of  gratee- 
chood  are  his  jew." 

With  these  words  O'Halloran  entered  the 
room,  followed  by  two  ladies  whom  he  thus 
introduced,  giving  my  name  to  them,  but  in 
the  abstraction  of  the  moment  not  mention 
ing  their  names  to  me. 

The  ladies  greeted  me  with  smiles,  which 
at  once  threw  a  new  charm  over  this  very 
comfortable  room,  and  seated  themselves 
opposite  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  so  that 
I  had  the  best  view  of  them  possible. 


And  now  the  very  first  glance  that  I  ob* 
tained  of  these  ladies  showed  me  that  I  had' 
hit  upon  a  wonderful  piece  of  good  luck 
when  I  went  to  that  concert  and  met  my 
new  friend  O'Halloran.  For  in  beauty  of 
face,  grace  of  figure,  refinement  of  man 
ner  ;  in  every  thing  that  affects  an  impressi 
ble  man — and  what  man  is  not  impressi 
ble  ? — these  ladies  were  so  far  beyond  all 
others  in  Quebec,  that  no  comparison  could 
be  made.  The  Burton  girls  were  nowhere. 

The  elder  of  the  two  might  have  been — 
no  matter — not  over  twenty-three  or  four 
at  any  rate;  while  the  younger  was  certain 
ly  not  over  eighteen  or  nineteen.  There 
was  a  good  deal  of  similarity  in  their 
styles ;  both  were  brunettes  ;  both  had 
abundance  of  dark,  lustrous  hair ;  both  had 
those  dark,  hazel  eyes  which  can  send  such 
a  thrill  to  the  soul  of  the  impressible.  For 
my  part  I  thrilled,  I  glowed,  I  exulted,  I  re 
joiced  and  triumphed  in  the  adventure 
which  had  led  to  such  a  discovery  as  this. 
Were  there  any  other  women  in  Canada,  in 
America,  or  in  the  world,  equal  to  them  ? 
I  did  not  believe  there  were.  And  then 
their  voices — low — sweet — musical — voices 
which  spoke  of  the  exquisite  refinement  of 
perfect  breeding ;  those  voices  would  have 
been  enough  to  make  a  man  do  or  dare  any 
thing. 

Between  them,  however,  there  were  some 
differences.  The  elder  had  an  expression 
of  good-natured  content,  and  there  was  in 
her  a  vein  of  fun  which  was  manifest,  while 
the  younger  seemed  to  have  a  nature  which 
was  more  intense  and  more  earnest,  and 
there  was  around  her  a  certain  indefinable 
reserve  and  hauteur. 

Which  did  I  admire  most  ? 

I  declare  it's  simply  impossible  to  say. 
I  was  overwhelmed.  I  was  crushed  with 
equal  admiration.  My  whole  soul  became 
instinct  with  the  immortal  sentiment — 


52 


THE  LADY   OF  THE  ICE. 


"How  happy  could  I  be  with,  either;" 
while  the  cordiality  of  my  reception,  which 
made  me  at  once  a  friend  of  this  jewel  of 
a  family,  caused  my  situation  to  assume  so 
delicious  an  aspect  that  it  was  positively 
bewildering. 

O'Halloran  hadn't  mentioned  their  names, 
but  the  names  soon  came  out.  They  were 
evidently  his  daughters.  The  name  of  the 
eldest  I  found  was  Nora,  and  the  name  of 
the  younger  was  Marion.  The  old  gentle 
man  was  lively,  and  gave  a  highly-dramatic 
account  of  the  affair  at  the  concert,  in 
which  he  represented  my  conduct  in  the 
most  glowing  light.  The  ladies  listened  to 
all  this  with  undisguised  agitation,  inter 
rupting  him  frequently  with  anxious  ques 
tions,  and  regarding  my  humble  self  as  a 
sort  of  a  hero.  All  this  was  in  the  highest 
degree  encouraging  to  a  susceptible  mind ; 
and  I  soon  found  myself  sliding  off  into  an 
easy,  a  frank,  an  eloquent,  and  a  very  de- 
liglitful  conversation.  Of  the  two  ladies, 
the  elder  Miss  O'Halloran  took  the  chief 
share  in  that  lively  yet  intellectual  inter 
course.  Marion  only  put  in  a  word  occa 
sionally  ;  and,  though  very  amiable,  still  did 
not  show  so  much  cordiality  as  her  sister. 
But  Miss  O'Halloran  !  what  wit !  what 
sparkle  !  what  mirth  !  what  fun  !  what 
repartee !  what  culture  !  what  refinement ! 
what  an  acquaintance  with  the  world  !  what 
a  knowledge  of  men  and  things!  what  a 
faultless  accent !  what  indescribable  grace 
of  manner  !  what  a  generous  and  yet  lady 
like  humor  !  what  a  merry,  musical  laugh ! 
what  quickness  of  apprehension !  what 
acutcness  of  perception !  what — words  fail. 
Imagine  every  thing  that  is  delightful  in  a 
first-rate  conversationalist,  and  every  thing 
that  is  fascinating  in  a  lady,  and  even  then 
you  will  fail  to  have  a  correct  idea  of  Miss 
O'Halloran.  To  have  such  an  idea  it  would 
be  necessary  to  see  her. 


Marion  on  the  other  hand  was  quiet,  as  I 
have  said.  Perhaps  this  arose  from  a  reti 
cence  of  disposition  ;  or  perhaps  it  was 
merely  the  result  of  her  position  as  a 
younger  sister.  Her  beautiful  face,  with 
its  calm,  self-poised  expression,  was  turned 
toward  us,  and  she  listened  to  all  that  was 
said,  and  at  times  a  smile  like  a  sunbeam 
would  flash  over  her  lovely  features ;  but 
it  was  only  at  times,  when  a  direct  appeal 
was  made  to  her,  that  she  would  speak,  and 
then  her  words  were  few,  though  quite  to 
the  point.  I  had  not,  therefore,  a  fair 
chance  of  comparing  her  with  Miss  O'Hal 
loran. 

In  their  accent  there  was  not  the  slight 
est  sign  of  that  rich  Leinster  brogue  which 
was  so  apparent  in  their  father.  This, 
however,  may  have  arisen  from  an  English 
mother,  or  an  English  education.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  in  no  respect  could  they  be 
distinguished  from  English  ladies,  except  in 
a  certain  vivacity  of  manner,  which  in  the 
latter  is  not  common.  O'Halloran  was  evi 
dently  a  gentleman,  and  His  house  showed 
that  he  was  at  least  in  comfortable  circum 
stances.  What  his  business  now  might  be 
I  could  not  tell.  What  his  past  had  been 
was  equally  uncertain.  Was  he  an  exiled 
Young  Irelander?  Had  he  been  driven 
from  his  home,  or  had  he  left  it  volun 
tarily  ?  Whatever  he  was,  his  surround 
ings  and  his  belongings  showed  unmistak 
able  signs  of  culture  and  refinement ;  and 
as  to  his  daughters,  why,  hang  it !  a  peer 
of  *  the  realm  couldn't  have  shown  more 
glorious  specimens  of  perfect  womanhood 
than  these  which  smiled  on  me  in  that 
pleasant  parlor. 

Meanwhile,  as  I  flung  myself  headlong 
into  a  lively  conversation  with  Miss  O'Hal 
loran,  the  old  gentleman  listened  for  a  time 
and  made  occasional  remarks,  but  at  length 
relapsed  into  himself,  and  after  some  min- 


THE  DAILY  PAPEE. 


53 


utes  of  thought  he  reached  out  his  hand 
and  drew  from  among  the  periodicals  lying 
on  the  table — 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE     DAILY     PAPER. 

"  BY  the  powers  !  "  suddenly  interrupted 
the  deep  voice  of  O'Halloran,  breaking  in 
upon  our  lively  and  delightful  conversation. 

At  which  we  all  started  as  though  we 
had  been  shot. 

"By  the  pipers  !"  continued  O'Halloran, 
after  some  hesitation.  "  To  think  of  any 
body  thryin'  to  cross  the  river  on  the  3d  ! 
Why,  that  was  the  dee  of  the  breek-up." 

At  these  words  I  started  in  new  astonish 
ment,  and  for  a  moment  didn't  know  what 
in  the  world  to  make  of  it  all.  As  for  the 
ladies,  they  didn't  say  a  word.  I  didn't 
notice  them,  in  fact ;  I  had  turned  and  was 
looking  at  O'Halloran. 

"  See  here,"  said  he.  "  Did  you  ever 
hear  the  loikes  of  this  ?  *  Paul  Verrier  of 
Chaudiere  lift  his  home  on  the  3d  of  Eepril 
last,  to  convee  a  leedy  to  Quebec  across  the 
oice  ;  '  "  and  he  read  straight  through  the 
very  advertisement  which  I  had  written  and 
inserted  in  that  very  paper. 

What  my  emotions  were  at  that  moment 
it  is  difficult  to  describe.  At  first  I  felt  sur 
prise,  then  I  experienced  a  sense  of  triumph 
at  this  striking  proof  of  the  success  which 
my  advertisement  had  met  with,  but  finally 
I  had  occasion  to  feel  emotions  which  were 
very  different  from  either  of  these.  I  had 
turned  as  O'Halloran  began  to  read  those 
familiar  words,  and  after  he  had  .finished 
I-  mechanically  settled  myself  into  my  for 
mer  position,  partly  because  of  the  comfort 
of  the  thing,  and  partly  to  see  how  perfectly 
impartial  hearers  like  these  ladies  would 
listen  to  this  composition  of  mine.  My 


chief  feeling  was  precisely  the  same  as  ani 
mates  the  artist  who  stands  incognito  beside 
his  picture,  to  listen  to  the  remarks  of  spec 
tators  ;  or  the  author  who  hunts  through 
papers  to  read  the  criticism  on  his  first 
book.  This,  it  is  true,  was  neither  a  pic 
ture  nor  a  book,  nor  was  I  either  an  artist 
or  an  author,  yet,  after  all,  this  advertise 
ment  was  a  literary  effort  of  mine,  and, 
what  is  more,  it  was  the  first  one  that  had 
appeared  in  print.  Was  it  any  wonder, 
then,  that  for  these  reasons  I  felt  curious 
to  see  the  effect  of  that  advertisement  ? 

Now,  as  I  turned,  I  was  in  expectation  of 
some  sign  of  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  la 
dies — call  it  surprise  ;  call  it  sympathy ; 
call  it  what  you  will — but  I  certainly  was 
not  prepared  for  that  very  peculiar  and  very 
marked  effect  which  my  humble  effort  at 
composition  produced  on  them. 

For  there  they  sat — Marion  erect  and 
rigid,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  sister,  and 
her  hand  raised  in  an  attitude  of  warning ; 
and  Miss  O'Halloran,  in  the  same  fixed  atti 
tude,  looked  eagerly  at  Marion,  her  eyes 
wide  open,  her  lips  parted,  and  one  of  her 
hands  also  half  raised  in  the  involuntary 
expression  of  amazement,  or  the  mechan 
ical  suggestion  of  secrecy.  Miss  O'Hallo- 
ran's  emotion  was  not  so  strong  as  that 
of  Marion,  but  then  her  nature  was  more 
placid,  and  the  attitude  of  each  was  in  full 
accordance  with  their  respective  characters. 

They  sat  there  in  that  attitude,  altogether 
unconscious  of  me  and  of  my  gaze,  with 
deep  emotion  visible  on  their  faces,  and  un 
mistakable,  yet  why  that  emotion  should  be 
caused  by  that  advertisement  I  could  not 
for  the  life  of  me  imagine. 

"Well,"  said  O'Halloran,  "what  do  ye 
think  of  that  now  ?  Isn't  that  a  spicimin 
of  thrue  Canajin  grade?  The  man  threw 
his  loife  away  for  a  few  pince." 

As  O'Halloran  spoke,  the  ladies  recovered 


54 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


their  presence  of  mind.  They  started. 
Miss  O'Halloran  saw  my  eyes  fixed  on  her, 
flushed  up  a  little,  and  looked  away.  As 
for  Marion,  she  too  saw  my  look,  but,  in 
stead  of  turning  her  eyes  away,  she  fixed 
them  on  me  for  an  instant  with  a  strange 
and  most  intense  gaze,  which  seemed  to 
spring  from  her  dark,  solemn,  lustrous 
eyes,  and  pierce  me  through  and  through. 
But  it  was  only  for  an  instant.  Then  her 
eyes  fell,  and  there  remained  not  a  trace 
of  their  past  excitement  in  either  of 
them. 

I  confess  I  was  utterly  confounded  at 
this.  These  two  ladies  perceived  in  that 
advertisement  of  mine  a  certain  meaning 
which  showed  that  they  must  have  some 
idea  of  the  cause  of  the  fate  of  the  imagi 
nary  Verrier.  And  what  was  this  that  they 
knew ;  and  how  much  did  they  know  ?  Was 
it  possible  that  they  could  know  the  lady 
herself  ?  It  seemed  probable. 

The  idea  filled  me  with  intense  excite 
ment,  and  made  me  determine  here  on  the 
spot,  and  at  once,  to  pursue  my  search  after 
the  unknown  lady.  But  how  ?  One  way 
alone  seemed  possible,  and  that  was  by 
telling  a  simple,  unvarnished  tale  of  my. 
own  actual  adventure. 

This  decision  I  reached  in  little  more 
than  a  minute,  and,  before  either  of  the 
ladies  had  made  a  reply  to  O'Halloran's 
last  remark,  I  answered  him  in  as  easy  a 
tone  as  I  could  assume. 

"  Oh,"  I  said,  "  I  can  tell  you  all  about 
that." 

"  You ! "  cried  O'Halloran. 

"  You  !  "  cried  Miss  O'Halloran. 

"  You  ! "  cried  Marion,  and  she  and  her 
sister  fixed  their  eyes  upon  me  with  un 
mistakable  excitement,  and  seemed  to 
anticipate  all  that  I  might  be  going  to 
say. 

This,  of  course,  was  all  the  more  favor 


able  to  my  design,  and,  seeing  such  imme 
diate  success,  I  went  on  headlong. 

"  You  see,"  said  I,  "  I  put  that  notice  in 
myself." 

f  O'Halloran, 

"  You  !  "  cried    \  Miss  O'Halloran, 

(.  Marion, 
this  time  in  greater  surprise  than  before. 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  I  did  it  because  I  was 
very  anxious  to  trace  some  one,  and  this 
appeared  to  be  the  way  that  was  at  once 
the  most  certain,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
least  likely  to  excite  suspicion." 

"  Suspicion  ?  " 

"Yes — for  the  one  whom  I  wished  to 
trace  was  a  lady." 

"A  lady!"  said  O'Halloran.  "Aha! 
you  rogue,  so  that's  what  ye'er  up  to,  is  it  ? 
An'  there  isn't  a  word  of  truth  in  this  about 
Terrier  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  said  I.  "  He  was  really 
drowned,  but  I  don't  know  his  name,  and 
Paul  Terrier,  and  the  disconsolate  father, 
Pierre,  are  altogether  imaginary  names. 
But  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  Be  dad,  an'  I'd  be  glad  if  ye  would,  for 
this  exorjium  sthrikes  me  as  the  most  schu- 
pindous  bit  of  schamin  that  I've  encoun- 
thered  for  a  month  of  Sundays." 

While  I  was  saying  this,  the  ladies  did 
not  utter  a  single  syllable.  But  if  they 
were  silent,  it  was  not  from  want  of  inte 
rest.  Their  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine  as 
though  they  were  bound  to  me  by  some 
powerful  spell;  their  lips  parted,  and,  in 
their  intense  eagerness  to  hear  what  it  was 
that  I  had  to  say,  they  did  not  pretend  to 
conceal  their  feelings.  Miss  O'Halloran 
was  seated  in  an  arm-chair.  Her  left  arm 
leaned  upon  it,  and  her  hand  mechanically 
pressed  her  forehead  as  she  devoured  me 
with  her  gaze.  Marion  was  seated  on  a 
common  chair,  and  sat  with  one  elbow  on 
the  table,  her  hands  clasped  tight,  her  body 


THE  DAILY  PAPEE. 


55 


thrown  slightly  forward,  and  her  eyes  fixed 
on  mine  with  an  intensity  of  gaze  that  was 
really  embarrassing. 

And  now  all  this  convinced  me  that  they 
must  know  all  about  it,  and  emboldened 
me  to  go  on.  Xow  was  the  time,  I  felt,  to 
press  my  search — now  or  never. 

So  I  went  on — 

"  Conticuere  omnes,  intentique  ora  tenebant 
Inde  toro  Sandy  Macrorie  sic  orsus  ab  alto : 
Infandum,  Regina,  jubes  renovare  dolorem.'' 

That's  about  it.  Rather  a  hackneyed 
quotation,  of  course,  but  a  fellow  like  me 
isn't  supposed  to  know  much  about  Latin, 
and  it  is  uncommonly  appropriate.  And,  I 
tell  you  what  it  is,  since  ./Eneas  entertained 
Dido  on  that  memorable  occasion,  few  fel 
lows  have  had  such  an  audience  as  that 
which  gathered  round  me,  as  I  sat  in  that 
hospitable  parlor,  and  told  about  my  adven 
ture  on  the  ice. 

Such  an  audience  was  enough  to  stimu 
late  any  man.  I  felt  the  stimulus.  I'm 
not  generally  considered  fluent,  or  good  at 
description,  and  I'm  not  much  of  a  talker ; 
but  all  that  I  ever  lacked  on  ordinary  occa 
sions  I  made  amends  for  on  that  evening. 
I  began  at  the  beginning,  from  the  time  I 
was  ordered  oif.  Then  I  led  my  spellbound 
audience  over  the  crumbling  ice,  till  the 
sleigh  came.  Then  I  indulged  in  a  thrill 
ing  descriptien  of  the  runaway  horse  and 
the  lost  driver.  Then  I  portrayed  the  lady 
floating  in  a  sleigh,  and  my  rescue  of  her. 
Of  course,  for  manifest  reasons,  which  every 
gentleman  will  appreciate,  I  didn't  bring 
myself  forward  more  prominently  than  I 
could  help.  Then  followed  that  journey 
over  the  ice,  the  passage  of  the  ice-ridge, 
the  long,  interminable  march,  the  fainting 
lady,  the  broad  channel  near  the  shore, 
the  white  gleam  of  the  ice-cone  at  Mont- 
morency,  my  wild  leap,  and  my  mad 


dash  up  the  bank  to  the  Frenchman's 
house. 

Up  to  this  moment  my  audience  sat,  as  I 
have  before  remarked,  I  think,  simply  spell 
bound.  O'Halloran  was  on  one  side  of 
me,  with  his  chin  on  his  breast,  and  his 
eyes  glaring  at  me  from  beneath  his  bushy 
eyebrows.  Marion  sat  rigid  and  motion 
less,  with  her  hands  clasped,  and  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  floor.  Miss  O'Halloran  never 
took  her  eyes  off  my  face,  but  kept  them 
on  mine  as  though  they  were  riveted  there. 
At  times  she  started  nervously,  and  shifted 
her  position,  and  fidgeted  in  her  chair,  but 
never  did  she  remove  her  eyes.  Once, 
when  I  came  to  the  time  when  I  led  my 
companion  over  the  ice-ridge,  I  saw  a  shud 
der  pass  through  her.  Once  again,  when  I 
came  to  that  moment  when  my  companion 
fainted,  Marion  gave  a  kind  of  gasp,  and  I 
saw  Miss  O'Halloran  reach  out  her  hand, 
and  clasp  the  clinched  hands  of  her  sister ; 
but  with  these  exceptions  there  was  no 
variation  in  their  attitude  or  manner. 

And  now  I  tuned  my  harp  to  a  lighter 
strain,  which  means  that  I  proceeded  to 
give  an  account  of  my  journey  after  the 
doctor,  his  start,  my  slumbers,  my  own 
start,  our  meeting,  the  doctor's  wrath,  my 
pursuasions,  our  journeyr  our  troubles,  our 
arrival  at  the  house,  our  final  crushing  dis 
appointment,  the  doctor's  brutal  raillery, 
my  own  meekness,  and  our  final  return 
home.  Then,  without  mentioning  Jack 
Randolph,  I  explained  the  object  of  the 
advertisement — 

"  Sic  Sandy  Macrorie,  intentis  omnibus,  unus 
Fata  renarrabat  Divum,  cursusque  docebat, 
Conticuit  tandem — " 

[Hack  Latin,  of  course,  but  then,  you 
know,  if  one  does  quote  Latin,  that  is  the 
only  sort  that  can  be  understood  by  the 
general  reader.] 


56 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


The  conclusion  of  my  story  produced  a 
marked  effect.  O'Halloran  roused  himself, 
and  sat  erect  with  a  smile  on  his  face  and 
a  good-natured  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  Miss 
O'Halloran  lowered  her  eyes  and  held  down 
her  head4  and  once,  when  I  reached  that 
point  in  my  story  where  the  bird  was  flown, 
she  absolutely  laughed  out.  Marion's  sol 
emn  and  beautiful  face  also  underwent  a 
change.  A  softer  expression  came  over  it ; 
she  raised  her  eyes  and  fixed  them  with 
burning  intensity  on  mine,  her  hands  re 
laxed  the  rigid  clasp  with  which  they  had 
held  one  another,  and  she  settled  herself 
into  an  easier  position  in  her  chair. 

"  Well,  be  jakers  ! "  exclaimed  old  Hallo- 
ran  when  I  had  concluded,  "  it  bates  the 
wurruld.  What  a  lucky  dog  ye  are !  Ad- 
vintures  come  tumblin'  upon  ye  dee  afther 
dee.  But  will  ye  ivir  foind  the  leedee  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  I,  disconsolately. 
"  I  put  out  that  advertisement  with  a  faint 
hope  that  the  lady's  sympathy  with  the  un 
fortunate  driver  might  lead  her  to  make 
herself  known." 

At  this  point  the  ladies  rose.  It  was 
getting  late,  and  they  bade  adieu  and  re 
tired.  Marion  went  out  rather  abruptly, 
Miss  O'Halloran  rather  slowly,  and  not 
without  a  final  smile  of  bewitching  sweet 
ness.  I  was  going  too,  but  O'Halloran 
would  not  think  of  it.  He  declared  that 
the  evening  was  just  begun.  Now  that  the 
ladies  were  gone  we  would  have  the  field  to 
ourselves.  He  assured  me  that  I  had  noth 
ing  in  particular  to  do,  and  might  easily  wait 
and  join  him  in  "  somethin'  warrum." 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

"SOMETHIN'   TVARRTTM." 

I  MUST  say  I  was  grievously  disappointed 
at  the  departure  of  the  ladies.  It  was  late 


enough  in  all  conscience  for  such  a  move, 
but  the  time  had  passed  quickly,  and  I  was 
not  aware  how  late  it  was.  Besides,  I  had 
hoped  that  something  would  fall  from  them 
which  would  throw  light  on  the  great  mys 
tery.  But  nothing  of  the  kind  occurred. 
They  retired  without  saying  any  thing  more 
than  the  commonplaces  of  social  life.  What 
made  it  worse  was,  the  fact  that  my  story 
had  produced  a  tremendous  effect  on  both 
of  them.  That  could  not  be  concealed. 
They  evidently  knew  something  about  the 
lady  whom  I  had  rescued ;  and,  if  they 
chose,  they  could  put  me  in  the  way  of  dis 
covery.  .Then,  in  Heaven's  name,  why 
didn't  they  ?  Why  did  they  go  off  in  this 
style,  without  a  word,  leaving  me  a  prey  to 
suspense  of  the  worst  kind  ?  It  was  cruel. 
It  was  unkind.  It  was  ungenerous.  It  was 
unjust.  It  was  unfair. 

One  thing  alone  remained  to  comfort  and 
encourage  me,  and  that  was  the  recollection 
of  Miss  O'Halloran's  bewitching  smile.  The 
sweetness  of  that  smile  lingered  in  my  mem 
ory,  and  seemed  to  give  me  hope.  I  would 
see  her  again.  I  would  ask  her  directly, 
and  she  would  not  have  the  heart  to  refuse. 
Marion's  graver  face  did  not  inspire  that 
confident  hope  which  was  caused  by  the 
more  genial  and  sympathetic  manner  of  her 
sprightly  elder  sister. 

Such  were  my  thoughts  after  the  ladies 
had  taken  their  departure.  But  these 
thoughts  were  soon  interrupted  and  di 
verted  to  another  channel.  O'Halloran 
rang  for  a  servant,  and  ordered  up  what 
he  called  "  somethin'  warrum."  That  some 
thing  soon  appeared  in  the  shape  of  two 
decanters,  a  kettle  of  hot  water,  a  sugar- 
bowl,  tumblers,  wine-glasses,  spoons,  and 
several  other  things,  the  list  of  which  was 
closed  by  pipes  and  tobacco. 

O'Halloran  was  beyond  a  doubt  an  Irish 
man,  and  a  patriotic  one  at  that,  but  for 


"SOMETHIN'  WAERUM." 


"  somethin'  warrum  "  he  evidently  preferred 
Scotch  whiskey  to  that  which  is  produced 
on  the  Emerald  Sod.  Beneath  the  benign 
influences  of  this  draught  he  became  more 
confidential,  and  I  grew  more  serene.  We 
sat.  We  quaffed  the  fragrant  draught.  We 
inhaled  the  cheerful  nicotic  fumes.  We  be 
came  friendly,  communicative,  sympathetic. 

O'Halloran,  however,  was  more  talkative 
than  I,  and  consequently  had  more  to  say. 
If  I'm  not  a  good  talker,  I'm  at  least  an 
excellent  listener,  and  that  was  all  that  my 
new  friend  wanted.  And  so  he  went  on 
talking,  quite  indifferent  as  to  any  answers 
of  mine ;  and,  as  I  always  prefer  the  ease 
of  listening  to  the  drudgery  of  talking,  we 
were  both  well  satisfied  and  mutually  de 
lighted. 

First  of  all,  O'Halloran  was  simply  fes 
tive.  He  talked  much  about  my  adventure, 
criticised  it  from  various  points  of  view,  and 
gayly  rallied  me  about  the  lost  "  gyerrul." 

From  a  consideration  of  my  circumstan 
ces,  he  wandered  gradually  away  to  his  own. 
He  lamented  his  present  position  in  Quebec, 
which  place  he  found  insufferably  dull. 

"I'd  lave  it  at  wanst,"  he  said,  "if  I 
wern't  deteened  here  by  the  cleems  of 
jewty.  But  I  foind  it  dull  beyond  all  ex- 
prission.  Me  only  occupeetion  is  to  walk 
about  the  sthraits  and  throy  to  preserve  the 
attichood  of  a  shuparior  baying.  But  I'm 
getting  overwarrun  an'  toired  out,  an'  I'm 
longing  for  the  toime  whin  I  can  bid  ajoo  to 
the  counthry  with  its  Injins  an'  Canajians." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  can  find  to  amuse 
yourself  with,"  said  I,  sympathetically. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I  have  veerious  pur- 
shoots.  I've  got  me  books,  an'  I  foind 
imploymint  an'  amusemint  with  thim." 

And  now  he  began  to  enlarge  on  the 
theme  of  his  books,  and  he  went  on  in 
this  way  till  he  became  eloquent,  enthu 
siastic,  and  glorious.  He  quaffed  the  limpid 


and  transparent  liquid,  and  its  insinuating 
influences  inspired  him  every  moment  to 
nobler  flights  of  fancy,  of  rhetoric,  and  of 
eloquence.  He  began  to  grow  learned.  He 
discoursed  about  the  Attic  drama ;  the  cam 
paigns  of  Hannibal ;  the  manners  and  cus 
toms  of  the  Parthians;  the  doctrines  of 
Zoroaster ;  the  wars  of  Heraclius  and  Chos- 
roes  ;  the  Ommiades,  the  Abbasides,  and  the 
Fatimites ;  the  Comneni ;  the  Paleologi ;  the 
writings  of  Snorro  Sturlesson;  the  round 
towers  of  Ireland ;  the  Phoenician  origin  of 
the  Irish  people  proved  by  illustrations  from 
Plautus,  and  a  hundred  other  things  of  a 
similar  character. 

"  And  what  are  you  engaged  upon  now  ?  " 
I  asked,  at  length,  as  I  found  myself  fairly 
lost  amid  the  multiplicity  of  subjects  which 
he  brought  forward. 

"  Engceged  upon  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  "  well 
— a  little  of  iviry  thing,  but  this  dee  I've 
been  busy  with  a  rayconsthruction  of  the 
scholastic  thaories  rilitiv'  to  the  jureetion 
of  the  diluge  of  Juceelion.  Have  ye  ivir 
perused  the  thraitises  of  the  Chubingen 
school  about  the  Noachic  diluge  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Well,  ye'll  find  it  moighty  foine  an'  in- 
sthructive  raidin'.  But  in  addition  to  this, 
I've  been  investigatin'  the  subject  of  may- 
dyayvil  jools.", 

"  Jools  ? "  I  repeated,  in  an  imbecile 
way. 

"  Yis,  jools,"  said  O'Halloran,  "  the  orjil, 
ye  know,  the  weeger  of  battle." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  I,  as  a  light  burst  in 
upon  me ;  "  duels — I  understand." 

"  But  the  chafe  subject  that  I'm  engeeged 
upon  is  a  very  different  one,"  he  resumed, 
taking  another  swallow  of  the  oft-replen 
ished  draught.  "  It's  a  thraitise  of  moine 
by  which  I  ixpict  to  upsit  the  thaories  of 
the  miserable  Saxon  schaymers  that  desthort 
the  pleen  facts  of  antiquetee  to  shoot  their 


58 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


own  narrow  an'  disthortid  comprayhinsions. 
An'  I  till  ye  what — whin  my  thraitise  is 
published,  it'll  make  a  chumult  among  thim 
that'll  convulse  the  litherary  wurruld." 

"  What  is  your  treatise  about  ?  "  I  asked, 
dreamily,  for  I  only- half  comprehended  him, 
or  rather,  I  didn't  comprehend  him  at 
all. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  its  a  foine  subject  in- 
toirely.  It's  a  thraitise  rilitiv'  to  the  Aydi 
podayan  Ipopaya." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  I  asked.  "  The 
what?—" 

"  The  Aydipodayan  Ipopaya,"  said  O'Hal- 
loran. 

"  The  Aydipodayan  Ipopaya  ?  "  I  repeat 
ed,  in  a  misty,  foggy,  and  utterly  woe-be- 
gone  manner. 

"Yis,"  said  he,  "an'  I'd  like  to  hare 
your  opinion  about  that  same,"  saying 
which,  he  once  more  filled  his  oft-replen 
ished  tumbler. 

It  was  too  much.  The  conversation  was 
getting  beyond  my  depth.  I  had  followed 
him  in  a  vague  and  misty  way  thus  far,  but 
this  Aydipodayan  Ipopaya  was  an  obstacle 
which  I  could  not  in  any  way  surmount.  I 
halted  short,  full  in  front  of  that  insur 
mountable  obstacle.  So  far  from  sur 
mounting  it,  I  couldn't  even  pretend  to 
have  the  smallest  idea  what  it  was.  I  could 
not  get  over  it,  and  therefore  began  to  think 
of  a  general  retreat. 

I  rose  to  my  feet. 

"  Ye're  not  going  yit  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  but  I  am,"  said  I. 

"  Why,  sure  it's  airly  enough,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  it's  early  enough,  but 
it's  early  the  wrong  way.  It's  now,"  said 
I,  taking  out  my  watch,  "just  twenty  min 
utes  of  four.  I  must  be  off — really." 

"  Well,"  said  O'Halloran,  "  I'm  sorry  ye're 
going,  but  you  know  best  what  you  must 
do." 


"And  I'm  sorrier,"  said  I,  "for  I've 
spent  a  most  delightful  evening." 

"  Sure  an'  I'm  glad  to  hear  ye  say  that. 
And  ye'll  come  again,  won't  ye  ?  " 

"Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleas 
ure." 

"  Come  to-morrow  night  thin,"  said  he. 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  happy,"  said  I ;  and 
with  these  words  I  took  my  departure. 

I  went  home,  and  went  to  bed  at  once. 
But  I  lay  awake,  a  prey  to  many  thoughts. 
Those  thoughts  did  not  refer  to  O'Halloran, 
or  to  his  Aydipodayan  Ipopaya.  On  the 
contrary,  they  referred  altogether  to  the 
ladies,  and  to  the  manner  in  which  they 
had  heard  my  narrative. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  that  ? 

And  my  speculations  on  this  passed  on 
even  into  my  dreams,  and  thus  carried  me 
away  into 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    FOLLOWING     MORNING. — APPEARANCE    OP 
JACK  RANDOLPH. — A  NEW  COMPLICATION. — 

THE    THREE   ORANGES. DESPERATE    EFFORTS 

OF  THE  JUGGLER. — HOW  TO  MAKE  FULL, 
AMPLE,  COMPLETE,  AND  MOST  SATISFACTORY 
EXPLANATIONS. — MISS  PHILLIPS  ! — THE  WID 
OW  !  ! NUMBER  THREE  !  !  ! — LOUIE  RAPIDLY 

RISING  INTO  GREATER  PROMINENCE  ON  THE 
MENTAL  AND  SENTIMENTAL  HORIZON  OF  JACK 
RANDOLPH. 

"WELL,  old  chap,"  cried  Jack,  as  he 
burst  into  my  room  on  the  following  morn 
ing,  "  what  the  mischief  were  you  doing 
with  yourself  all  last  night  ?  Come,  out 
with  it.  No  humbug.  I  was  here  at  twelve, 
lighted  up,  and  smoked  till — yes — I'll  be 
hanged  if  it  wasn't  half-past  two.  And 
you  didn't  come.  What  do  you  mean,  my 
good  fellow,  by  that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 


A  NEW  COMPLICATION. 


59 


,.  "  Oh,"  said  I,  meekly,  "I  was  passing  the 
evening  with  a  friend." 

"  The  evening !    The  night  you  mean." 

"  Well,  it  was  rather  late,"  said  I.  "  The 
fact  is,  we  got  talking,  and  I  was  telling 
him  about  my  adventure  on  the  ice.  We 
had  been  at  the  concert  first,  and  then  I 
went  with  him  to  his  quarters.  By-the- 
way,  why  weren't  you  there?  " 

In  this  dexterous  way  I  parried  Jack's 
question,  for  I  did  not  feel  inclined  just  yet 
to  return  his  confidence.  I  am  by  nature, 
as  the  reader  must  by  this  time  have  seen, 
uncommonly  reticent  and  reserved,  and  I 
wasn't  going  to  pour  out  my  story  and  my 
feelings  to  Jack,  who  would  probably  go 
and  tell  it  everywhere  before  the  close  of 
the  day. 

"  The  concert ! "  cried  Jack,  contemptu 
ously — "  the  concert !  My  dear  boy,  are 
you  mad  ?  What's  a  concert  to  me  or  I  to 
a  concert  ?  A  concert  ?  My  dear  fellow, 
what  kind  of  an  idea  have  you  formed  of 
me,  if  you  think  that  I  am  capable  of  tak 
ing  part  in  any  festive  scene  when  my  soul 
is  crushed  under  such  an  accumulated  bur 
den  of  fuss  and  bother  ?  " 

"  What,  are  you  bothered  still  ?  Haven't 
you  begun  to  see  your  way  through  the 
woods  ?  " 

"  See  my  way  ?  "  cried  Jack.  "Why,  it's 
getting  worse  and  worse — " 

"  Worse  ?  I  thought  you  had  reached 
the  worst  when  you  were  repulsed  by  Louie. 
What  worse  thing  can  happen  than  that  ? 
Weren't  all  your  thoughts  on  death  intent  ? 
Didn't  you  repeat  your  order  for  a  grave 
stone  ?  " 

"  True,  old  boy  ;  very  correct ;  but  then 
I  was  just  beginning  to  rally,  you  know, 
and  all  that,  when  down  comes  a  new  both 
er,  and,  if  I  weren't  so  uncommonly  fruitful 
in  resource,  this  day  would  have  seen  an 
end  of  Jack  Randolph.  I  see  you're  rather 


inclined  to  chaff  me  about  the  gravestone, 
but  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Macrorie,  if  this 
sort  of  thing  continues  you'll  be  in  for  it. 
I've  pulled  through  this  day,  but  whether  I 
can  pull  through  to-morrow  or  not  is  a  very 
hard  thing  to  say." 

At  this  Jack  struck  a  match,  and  sol 
emnly  lighted  his  pipe,  which  all  this  time 
he  had  been  filling. 

"  Ton  my  word,  old  chap,"  said  I,  "  you 
seem  bothered  again,  and  cornered,  and  all 
that.  What's  up  ?  Any  thing  new  ?  Out 
with  it,  and  pour  it  into  this  sympathetic 
ear." 

Jack  gave  about  a  dozen  solemn  puffs. 
Then  he  removed  his  pipe  with  his  left 
hand.  Then  with  his  right  hand  he  stroked 
his  brow.  Then  he  said,  slowly  and  im 
pressively  : 

"  She's  here  !  " 

"She!"  I  repeated.  "What  she? 
Which  ?  When  ?  Ho*  ?  " 

"  Miss  Phillips  ! "  said  Jack. 

"  Miss  Phillips  ! "  I  cried.  "  Miss  Phil 
lips!  Why,  haven't  you  been  expecting 
her  ?  Didn't  she  write,  and  tell  you  that 
she  was  coming,  and  all  that  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  then  you  know  I  had  half  an 
idea  that  something  or  other  would  turn 
up  to  prevent  her  actual  arrival.  There's 
many  a  slip,  you  know,  'tween  cup  and  lip. 
How  did  I  know  that  she  was  really  com 
ing  ?  It  didn't  seem  at  all  probable  that 
any  thing  so  abominably  embarrassing 
should  be  added  to  all  my  other  embarrass 
ments." 

"Probable?  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  it 
seems  to  me  the  most  probable  thing  in  the 
world.  It's  always  so.  Misfortunes  never 
come  single.  Don't  you  know  that  they 
always  come  in  clusters  ?  But  come,  tell 
me  all  about  it.  In  the  first  place,  you've 
seen  her,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course.     I  heard  of  her  arrival 


60 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


yesterday  morn,  and  went  off  at  once  to 
call  on  her.  Her  reception  of  me  was  not 
very  flattering.  She  was,  in  fact,  most  con 
foundedly  cool.  But  you  know  my  way. 
I  felt  awfully  cut  up,  and  insisted  on  know 
ing  the  reason  of  all  this.  Then  it  all  came 
out." 

Jack  paused. 

"  Well,  what  was  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  confound  it,  it  seems  that  she  had 
been  here  two  days,  and  had  been  expecting 
me  to  come  every  moment.  Now,  I  ask 
you,  Hacrorie,  as  a  friend,  wasn't  that 
rather  hard  on  a  fellow  when  he's  trying 
to  do  the  very  best  he  can,  and  is  over 
head. and  ears  in  all  kinds  of  difficulties? 
You  know,"  he  continued,  more  earnestly, 
"  the  awful  bothers  I've  had  the  last  few 
days.  Why,  man  alive,  I.  had  only  just  got 
her  letter,  and  hadn't  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  that.  And  now,  while  I  was  still 
in  a  state  of  bewilderment  at  such  unex 
pected  news,  here  she  comes  herself !  And 
then  she  begins  to  pitch  into  me  for  not  call 
ing  on  her  before." 

"It  was  rather  hard,  I  must  confess," 
said  I,  with  my  never-failing  sympathy ; 
"  and  how  did  it  all  end  ?  " 

Jack  heaved  a  heavy — a  very  heavy — 
sigh. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  it  ended  all  right— 
for  the  time.  I  declared  that  I  had  not 
expected  her  until  the  following  week ; 
and,  when  she  referred  to  certain  passages 
in  her  letter,  I  told  her  that  I  had  misun 
derstood  her  altogether,  which  was  the  sol 
emn  fact,  for  I  swear,  Macrorie,  I  really 
didn't  think,  even  if  she  did  come,  that 
she'd  be  here  two  or  three  days  after  her 
letter  came.  Two  or  three  days — why, 
hang  it  all,  she  must  have  arrived  here  the 
very  day  I  got  her  letter.  The  letter  must 
have  come  through  by  land,  and  she  came 
by  the  way  of  Portland.  Confound  those 


abominable  mails,  I  say !  What  business 
have  those  wretched  postmasters  to  send 
their  letters  through  the  woods  and  snow  ? 
Well,  never  mind.  I  made  it  up  all  right." 

"All  right?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  explained  it  all,  you  know. 
I  cleared  up  every  thing  in  the  completest 
way.  In  fact,  I  made  a  full,  ample,  intelli 
gible,  and  perfectly  satisfactory  explanation 
of  the  whole  thing.  I  showed  that  it  was 
all  a  mistake,  you  know — that  I  was  hum 
bugged  by  the  mails,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know.  So  she  relented,  and  we 
made  it  all  up,  and  I  took  her  out  driving, 
and  we  had  a  glorious  time,  though  the 
roads  were  awful — perfect  lakes,  slush  no 
end,  universal  thaw,  and  all  that.  But  we 
did  the  drive,  and  I  promised  to  go  there 
again  to-day." 

"  And  did  you  call  on  the  widow  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  before  I  went  there  I  had 
to  write  a  letter  to  Number  Three." 

"  Number  Three  !  You  must  have  had 
your  hands  full  ?  " 

"  Hands  full  ?  I  should  think  I  had,  my 
boy.  You  know  what  agony  writing  a  let 
ter  is  to  me.  It  took  me  two  hours  to  get 
through  it.  You  see  I  had  written  her  be 
fore,  reproaching  her  for  not  running  off 
with  me,  and  she  had  answered  me.  I  got 
her  answer  yesterday  morning.  She  wrote 
back  a  repetition  of  her  reason  for  not 
going,  and  pleaded  her  father,  who  she  said 
would  go  mad  if  she  did  such  a  thing.  Be 
tween  you  and  me,  Macrorie,  that's  all  bosh. 
The  man*s  as  mad  as  a  March  hare  now. 
But  this  wasn't  all.  What  do  you  think  ? 
She  actually  undertook  to  haul  me  over  the 
coals  about  the  widow." 

"  What !  has  she  heard  about  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  Didn't  I  tell  you  before  that 
she  kept  the  run  of  me  pretty  closely? 
Well,  she's  evidently  heard  all  about  me 
and  the  widow,  and  accordingly,  after  a 


A  NEW  COMPLICATION. 


61 


brief  explanation  about  her  father,  she  pro 
ceeded  to  walk  into  me  about  the  widow. 
Now  that  was  another  shock.  You  see,  the 
fact  is,  I  pitched  into  her  first  for  this  very 
reason,  and  thought,  if  I  began  the  attack, 
she'd  have  to  take  up  a  strictly  defensive 
attitude.  But  she  was  too  many  guns  for 
me.  No  go,  my  boy.-  Not  with  Number 
Three.  She  dodged  my  blow,  and  then 
sprang  at  me  herself,  and  I  found  myself 
thrown  on  my  defense.  So  you  see  I  had 
to  write  to  her  at  once." 

Jack  sighed  heavily,  and  quaffed  some 
Bass. 

"  But  how  the  mischief  could  you  handle 
such  a  subject  ?  Two  hours  !  I  should 
think  so.  For  my  part,  I  don't  see  how 
you  managed  it  at  all." 

"  Oh,  I  got  through,"  said  Jack.  "  I  ex 
plained  it  all,  you  know.  I  cleared  up 
every  thing  in  the  completest  way.  In 
fact,  I  made  a  full,  perfect,  intelligible,  am 
ple,  and  satisfactory  explanation — " 

"  Oh,  that's  all  downright  bosh  now,  old 
boy,"  I  interrupted.  u  How  could  you  ex 
plain  it  ?  It  can't  be  explained." 

"But  I  did  though,"  said  Jack.  "I 
don't  remember  how.  I  only  know  the  let 
ter  struck  me  as  just  the  thing,  and  I 
dropped  it  into  the  post-office  when  on  my 
way  to  the  widow's." 

"  The  widow's  ?  " 

"  Yes,  as  soon  as  I  finished  the  letter, 
I  hurried  off  to  the  widow's." 

"  By  Jove  ! "  I  cried,  aghast.  "  So  that's 
the  style  of  thing,  is  it  ?  Look  here,  old 
man,  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you,  in  the 
mildest  manner  in  the  world,  how  long  you 
consider  yourself  able  to  keep  up  this  sort 
of  thing  ?  " 

"  Allow  you  ?  Certainly  not.  No  ques 
tions,  old  chap.  I  don't  question  myself, 
and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  let  anybody  else. 
I'm  among  the  breakers.  I'm  whirling 


down-stream.  I  have  a  strong  sense  of 
the  aptness  of  Louie's  idea  about  the  jug 
gler  and  the  oranges.  But  the  worst  of  it 
is,  I'm  beginning  to  lose  confidence  in  my 
self." 

And  Jack  leaned  his  head  back,  and  sent 
out  a  long  b^am  of  smoke  that  flew  straight 
up  and  hit  the  ceiling.  After  which  he  stared 
at  me  in  unutterable  solemnity. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  go  on.  What  about 
the  widow  ?  " 

"  The  widow — oh — when  I  got  there  I 
found  another  row." 

"  Another  ?  " 

"  Yes,  another — the  worst  of  all.  But 
by  this  time  I  had  grown  used  to  it,  and  I 
was  as  serene  as  a  mountain-lake." 

"  But — the  row — what  was  it  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  had  heard  about  my  engage 
ment  to  Miss  Phillips,  and  her  arrival ;  so 
she  at  once  began  to  talk  to  me  like  a 
father.  The  way  she  questioned  me — why 
the  Grand  Inquisitor  is  nothing  to  it.  But 
she  didn't  make  any  thing  by  it.  You  see 
I  took  up  the  Fabian  tactics  and  avoided  a 
direct  engagement." 

"How's  that?" 

"  Why,  I  wouldn't  answer  her." 

"  How  could  you  avoid  it  ?  " 

"  Pooh ! — easy  enough — I  sat  and  chaffed 
her,  and  laughed  at  her,  and  called  her  jeal 
ous,  and  twitted  her,  no  end.  Well,  you 
know,  at  last  she  got  laughing  herself,  and 
we  made  it  all  up,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know ;  still,  she's  very  pertinacious, 
and  even  after  we  made  up  she  teased  and 
teased,  till  she  got  an  explanation  out  of 
me." 

"  An  explanation !    What,  another  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes — easy  enough — I  explained  it 
all,  you  know.  I  cleared  up  every  thing 
perfectly.  I  made  an  ample,  intelligible, 
full,  frank,  and  thoroughly  satisfactory  ex 
planation  of  the  whole  thing,  and — " 


G2 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  "What,  again  ?  Hang  it,  Jack,  don't  re 
peat  yourself.  This  is  the  third  time  that 
you've  repeated  those  words  verbatim" 

"  Is  it  ?  Did  I  ?  Odd,  too.  Fact  is,  I 
believe  I  made  up  that  sentence  for  my 
letter  to  Number  Three,  and  I  suppose  I've 
got  it  by  heart.  At  any  rate,  it's  all  right. 
You  see  I  had  three  explanations  to  make, 
and  they  all  had;  to  be  full,  frank,  ample, 
satisfactory,  and  all  the  rest  of  those  words, 
you  know.  But  it's  awfully  hard  work.  It's 
wearing  on  the  constitution.  It  destroys 
the  nervous  system.  I  tell  you  what  it  is, 
old  chap — I'm  serious — if  this  sort  of  thing 
ia  to  go  on,  hang  it,  I'll  die  of  exhaustion." 

"  So  that  was  the  end  of  your  troubles 
for  that  day  ?  " 

"  Well — yes — but  not  the  end  of  my  day. 
I  got  away  from  the  widow  by  eight  o'clock, 
and  then  trotted  over  to  Louie." 

"Louie?" 

"  Yes,  Louie.     "Why,  man — why  not  ?  " 

"  What,  after  the  late  mitten  ?  " 

"  Mitten  ?  of  course.  What  do  you  sup 
pose  I  care  for  that  ?  Isn't  Louie  the  best 
friend  I  have  ?  Isn't  she  my  only  comfort  ? 
Doesn't  she  give  magnificent  advice  to  a 
fellow,  and  all  that?  Louie?  Why,  man 
alive,  it's  the  only  thing  I  have  to  look  for 
ward  to !  Of  course.  Well,  you  see,  Louie 
was  luckily  disengaged.  The  other  girls 
were  at  whist  with  their  father  and  the 
aunt.  So  I  had  Louie  to  myself." 

"I  hope  you  didn't  do  the  sentimental 
again." 

"Sentimental?  Good  Lord!  hadn't  I 
been  overwhelmed  and  choked  with  senti 
ment  all  day  long?  Sentiment?  Of  all 
the  bosh — but  never  mind.  Louie  at  least 
didn't  bother  me  in  that  way.  Yes,  it's  a 
fact,  Macrorie,  she's  got  an  awful  knack  of 
giving  comfort  to  a  fellow." 

"Comfort?" 

"  Well,  I  can't  exactly  explain  it." 


"  I  suppose  she  was  very  sad,  and  sym 
pathetic,  and  all  that.  At  any  rate,  she 
didn't  know  the  real  trouble  that  you'd 
been  having  ?  " 

"  Didn't  she,  though  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not  ;  how  could  she  ?  " 

"Why,  she  began  questioning  me,  you 
know." 

"Questioning  you?" 

"Yes  —  about  —  the  three  oranges,  you 
know." 

"  Well,  and  how  did  you  manage  to  fight 
her  off?" 

"Fight  her  off?" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  I  couldn't." 

"Couldn't?" 

"No." 

"  Nonsense  !  A  fellow  that  could  baffle 
the  widow,  wouldn't  have  any  trouble  in 
baffling  Louie." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  very  well  ;  but  you  don't 
know  the  peculiar  way  she  goes  to  work. 
She's  such  an  awful  tease.  And  she  keeps 
at  it  too,  like  a  good  fellow." 

"  Still  you  were  safe  from  her  by  reason 
of  the  very  fact  that  your  daily  adventures 
were  things  that  you  could  not  tell  her." 

"  Couldn't  I,  though  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  I  don't  see  why  not." 

"  Impossible." 


"  You  did  ?  " 

"  I  did." 

"  To  Louie  ?  " 

"Yes,  to  Louie." 

Again  my  thoughts  and  feelings  found  ex 
pression  in  a  whistle. 

"  You  see,"  resumed  Jack,  "  she  badg 
ered  and  questioned,  and  teased  and  teased, 
till  at  last  she  got  it  all  out  of  me.  And 
the  way  she  took  it  !  Laughing  all  the 
time,  the  provoking  little  witch,  her  eyes 


A  NEW  COMPLICATION. 


63 


dancing  with  fun,  and  her  soul  in  a  perfect 
ecstasy  over  my  sorrows.  I  was  quiet  at 
first,  but  at  length  got  huffy.  You  see  if 
she  cared  for  a  fellow  she  ought  to  pity  him 
instead  of  laughing  at  him." 

"  But  she  doesn't  pretend  to  care  for  you 
— and  lucky  for  her  too." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Jack,  dolefully. 

"  But  what  did  she  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  Say  ?  Oh,  she  teased  and  teased,  and 
then  when  she  had  pumped  me  dry  she  burst 
out  into  one  of  her  fits — and  then  I  got 
huffy — and  she  at  once  pretended  to  be 
very  demure,  the  little  sinner,  though  I  saw 
her  eyes  twinkling  with  fun  all  the  time. 
And  at  last  she  burst  out : 

"'Oh,  Captain  Kandolph!  You're  so 
awfully  absurd.  I  can't  help  it,  I  must 
laugh.  Now  ain't  you  awfully  funny  ? 
Confess.  Please  confess,  Captain  Ran 
dolph.  Ple-e-e-ease  do,  like  a  good  Captain 
Randolph.  Ple-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ease !  * 
*  "  So  my  grim  features  relaxed,  and  I 
looked  benignly  at  her,  whereupon  she 
burst  out  laughing  again  in  my  face. 

"'Well,  I  can't  help  it,  I'm  sure,'  she 
said.  (  You  do  look  so  droll.  You  try 
to  make  me  laugh,  and  I  laugh,  and  can't 
help  it,  and  then  you  blame  me  for  doing 
the  very  thing  you  make  me  do,  and  I 
think  it's  a  shame — there,  now.* 

"  Whereupon  she  began  to  pout,  and 
look  hurt,  and  so,  you  know,  I  had  to  go 
to  work  and  explain  to  her." 

"  What !  not  another  explanation,  I  hope. 
A  'full,  frank,  free,  fresh,  ample,'  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  bother,  chaff!  I'm  in  earnest.  I 
merely  explained  that  I  didn't  take  any 
offence  from  her  laughter,  but  that  I  thought 
that  if  she  cared  for  a  fellow  she  wouldn't 
laugh  at  him. 

" '  But,  I  never  said  I  cared  for  you,'  said 
she. 


" '  Oh,  well — you  know  what  I  mean — 
you're  my  friend,  you  know,  and  my  only 
comfort,'  said  I. 

"  At  this  she  went  off  again. 

"  'Well,  then,'  said  I,  '  what  are  you  ? ' 

"  She  sat  and  thought. 

" '  Well,'  said  she, '  I  won't  be  your  friend, 
for  that's  too  cold  ;  I  won't  be  your  sister, 
for  that's  too  familiar.  Let  me  see — what 
ought  I  to  be  ?  I  can't  be  your  guardian,  for 
I'm  too  volatile — what,  then,  can  I  be  ?  Oh, 
I  see !  I'll  tell  you,  Captain  Randolph,  what 
I'll  be.  I'll  pretend  that  I'm  your  aunt. 
There,  sir.' 

'"Well,  then,'  said  I,  'my  own  dear 
aunt.' 

" '  No.  That  won't  do — you  are  always 
absurd  when  you  grow  affectionate  or  senti 
mental.  You  may  call  me  aunt — but  no 
sentiment.' 

"'Well,  Aunt  Louie.' 

"She  demurred  a  little,  but  finally,  I 
gained  my  point.  After  this  she  gave  me 
some  good  advice,  and  I  left  and  came 
straight  to  you,  to  find  your  room  empty." 

"  Advice  ?  You  said  she  gave  you  ad 
vice  ?  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  she  advised  me  to  get  immediate 
leave  of  absence,  and  go  home  for  a  time. 
I  could  then  have  a  breathing-space  to 
decide  on  my  future." 

"Capital!  Why,  what  a  perfect  little 
trump  Louie  is !  Jack,  my  boy,  that's  the 
very  thing  you'll  have  to  do." 

Jack  shook  his  head. 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  say  to  Louie  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  told  her  that  it  was  impossible. 
She  insisted  that  it  was  the  very  thing  I 
ought  to  do,  and  wanted  to  know  why  I 
wouldn't.  I  refused  to  tell,  whereupon  she 
began  to  coax  and  tease,  and  tease  and 
coax,  and  so  the  end  of  it  was,  I  told  her." 


64 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  told  her  I  couldn't  think  of  go 
ing  away  where  I  couldn't  see  her ;  that  I 
would  have  blown  my  brains  out  by  this 
time  if  it  weren't  for  her ;  and  that  I'd  blow 
my  brains  out  when  I  went  home,  if  it 
weren't  for  the  hope  of  seeing  her  to-mor 
row." 

"The  devil  you  did!"  said  I,  dryly. 
"  What !  after  being  mittened  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack.  "  It  was  on  my  mind 
to  say  it,  and  I  said  it." 

"  And  how  did  Louie  take  it  ?  " 

"  Not  well.  She  looked  coolly  at  me,  and 
said: 

" '  Captain  Kandolph,  I  happened  to  be 
speaking  sensibly.  You  seemed  to  be  in 
earnest  when  you  asked  for  my  opinion, 
and  I  gave  it.' 

" '  And  I  was  in  earnest,'  I  said. 

"  '  How  very  absurd  ! '  said  she.  '  The 
fable  of  the  shepherd-boy  who  cried  wolf, 
is  nothing  to  you.  It  seems  to  be  a  fixed 
habit  of  yours  to  go  about  to  all  the  young 
ladies  of  your  acquaintance  threatening  to 
blow  your  brains  out.  Now,  in  getting  up 
a  sentiment  for  my  benefit,  you  ought  at 
least  to  have  been  original,  and  not 
give  to  me  the  same  second-hand  one 
which  you  had  already  sent  to  Number 
Three.' 

"  She  looked  so  cold,  that  I  felt  fright 
ened. 

"  '  You're — you're — not  offended  ? '  said 
I.  'I'm  sure — ' 

" '  Oh,  no,'*  said  she,  interrupting  me ; 
*  I'm  not  offended.  I'm  only  disappointed 
in  you.  Don't  apologize,  for  you'll  only 
make  it  worse.' 

"  *  Well,'  said  I,  *  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  your  advice — but  circumstances 
over  which  I  have  no  control  prevent  me 
from  taking  it.  There — is  that  satisfac 
tory  ? ' 


" '  Quite,'  said  Louie,  and  her  old  smile 
returned. 

"  '  Do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  what  the 
circumstances  are  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  no — oh,  don't — '  she  cried,  with  an 
absurd  affectation  of  consternation.  'Oh, 
Captain  Randolph — please.  Ple-e-e-aase, 
Captain  Randolph — don't.' 

"  So  I  didn't." 

"  Well,  Jack,"  said  I,  "  how  in  the  world 
did  you  manage  to  carry  on  such  conversa 
tions  when  the  rest  of  the  family  were  there  ? 
Wouldn't  they  overhear  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  You  see  they  were  in  one 
room  at  their  whist,  and  we  were  in  the 
other.  Besides,  we  didn't  speak  loud 
enough  for  them  to  hear — except  occasion 
ally." 

"  So  Louie  didn't  take  offence." 

"  Oh,  no,  we  made  it  up  again  at  once. 
She  gave  me  a  beaming  smile  as  I  left. 
I'll  see  her  again  this  evening." 

"  And  the  others  through  the  day  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Jack,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Miss  Phillips  ?  " 

"  Of  course — and  then  I  get  a  note  from 
Number  Three,  requiring  an  immediate  an- 
swer — and  then  off  I  go  to  the  widow,  who 
will  have  a  new  grievance ;  and  then,  after 
being  used  up  by  all  these,  I  fly  to  Louie  for 
comfort  and  consolation." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  You're  in  for  it,  old  chap,"  I  said,  sol 
emnly,  "  and  all  that  I  can  say  is  this : 
Take  Louie's  advice,  and  flit." 

"  Not  just  yet,  at  any  rate,"  said  Jack, 
rising ;  and  with  these  words  he  took  his 
departure. 


O'HALLOKAN'S  AGAIN. 


65 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

O'HALLORAN'S  AGAIN. — A  STARTLING  REVELA 
TION. — THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. — FOUND  AT 
LAST. — CONFUSION,  EMBARRASSMENT,  RETI 
CENCE,  AND  SHYNESS,  SUCCEEDED  BY  WIT, 
FASCINATION,  LAUGHTER,  AND  WITCHING 
SMILES. 

AFTER  waiting  impatiently  all  day,  and 
beguiling  the  time  in  various  ways,  the  hour 
at  length  came  when  I  could  go  to  O'Hallo- 
ran's.  I  confess,  my  feelings  were  of  rather 
a  tumultuous  description.  I  would  see  the 
ladies  again.  I  would  renew  my  endeavors 
to  find  out  the  great  mystery  of  the  ice. 
Such  were  my  intentions,  and  I  had  firm 
ly  resolved  to  make  direct  questions  to 
Nora  and  Marion,  and  see  if  I  couldn't  force 
them,  or  coax  them,  or  argue  them,  into 
an  explanation  of  their  strange  agitation. 
Such  an  explanation,  I  felt,  would  be  a  dis 
covery  of  the  object  of  my  search. 

Full  of  these  thoughts,  intentions,  and 
determinations,  I  knocked  at  'O'Halloran's 
door,  and  was  ushered  by  the  servant  into 
the  comfortable  parlor.  O'Halloran  stood 
there  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Nora 
was  standing  not  far  from  him.  Marion 
was  not  there ;  but  O'Halloran  and  Nora 
were  both  looking  at  me,  as  I  entered, 
with  strange  expressions. 

O'Halloran  advanced  quickly,  and  caught 
me  by  the  hand. 

"  D'ye  know  what  ye've  done  ?  "  said  he, 
abruptly,  without  greeting  or  salutation  of 
any  kind.  "•  D'ye  know  what  ye've  done  ? 
Ye  seeved  moy  loife  at  the  concert.  But 
are  you  aweer  what  you've  done  be- 
soides  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  earnestly,  and  with  so 
strange  an  expression  that  for  a  moment  I 
thought  he  must  be  mad. 
5 


"Well,  really,"  said  I,  somewhat  con 
fusedly,  "Mr.  O'Halloran,  I  must  confess 
I'm  not  aware  of  any  thing  in  particular." 

"He  doesn't  know!"  cried  O'Halloran. 
"  He  doesn't  know.  'Tisn't  the  sloightest 
conception  that  he  has !  Will,  thin,  me 
boy,"  said  he — and  all  this  time  he  held  my 
hand,  and  kept  wringing  it  hard — "will, 
thin — I've  another  dibt  of  gratichood,  and, 
what's  more,  one  that  I  nivir  can  raypay. 
D'ye  know  what  ye've  done  ?  D'ye  know 
what  ye  are?  No?  Will, thin, I'll  tell  ye. 
Ye're  the  seevior  of  me  Nora,  me  darlin', 
me  proide,  me  own.  She  was  the  one  that 
ye  seeved  on  the  oice,  and  riscued  from  de- 
sthruction.  There  she  stands.  Look  at 
her.  But  for  you,  she'd  be  now  lost  forivir 
to  the  poor  owld  man  whose  light  an'  loife 
an'  trisure  she  always  was.  Nora,  jewel, 
there  he  is,  as  sure  as  a  gun,  though  whoy 
he  didn't  recognoize  ye  last  noight  passes 
moy  faible  comprayhinsion,  so  it  does." 

Saying  this,  he  let  go  my  hand  and  looked 
toward  Nora. 

At  this  astounding  announcement  I  stood 
simply  paralyzed.  I  stared  at  each  in  suc 
cession.  To  give  an  idea  of  my  feelings  is 
simply  impossible.  I  must  refer  every  thing 
to  the  imagination  of  the  reader ;  and,  by 
way  of  comparison  to  assist  his  imagina 
tion,  I  beg  leave  to  call  his  attention  to  our 
old  friend,  the  thunder-bolt.  "  Had  a  thun 
der-bolt  burst,"  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
Fact,  sir.  Dumbfounded.  By  Jove  !  that 
word  even  does  not  begin  to  express  the 
idea. 

Now  for  about  twenty  hours,  in  dreams 
as  well  as  in  waking  moments,  I  had  been 
brooding  over  the  identity  of  the  lady  of 
the  ice,  and  had  become  convinced  that  the 
O'Halloran  ladies  knew  something  about  it ; 
yet  so  obtuse  was  I  that  I  had  not  suspected 
that  the  lady  herself  might  be  found  in  this 
house.  In  fact,  such  an  event  was  at  once 


66 


THE  LADY   OF  THE  ICE. 


so  romantic  and  so  improbable  that  it  did 
not  even  suggest  itself.  But  now  here  was 
the  lady  herself.  Here  she  stood.  Now  I 
could  understand  the  emotion,  the  agita 
tion,  and  all  that,  of  the  previous  evening. 
This  would  at  once  account  for  it  all.  And 
here  she  stood — the  lady  herself— and  that 
lady  was  no  other  than  Miss  O'Halloran. 

By  Jove ! 

Miss  O'Halloran  looked  very  much  con 
fused,  and  very  much  embarrassed.  Her 
eyes  lowered  and  sought  the  floor,  and  in 
this  way  she  advanced  and  took  my  prof 
fered  hand.  Ton  my  life,  I  don't  think  I 
ever  saw  any  thing  more  beautiful  than  she 
was  as  this  confusion  covered  her  lovely 
face  ;  and  the  eyes  which  thus  avoided 
mine  seemed  to  my  imagination  still  more 
lovely  than  they  had  been  before. 

And  this  was  the  one — I  thought,  as  I 
took  her  hand — this  was  the  one — the  com 
panion  of  my  perilous  trip — the  life  that  I 
had  saved.  Yet  this  discovery  filled  me 
with  wonder.  This  one,  so  gay,  so  genial, 
so  laughter-loving — this  one,  so  glowing 
with  the  bloom  of  health,  and  the  light  of 
life,  and  the  sparkle  of  wit — this  one !  It 
seemed  impossible.  There  swept  before  me 
on  that  instant  the  vision  of  the  ice,  that 
quivering  form  clinging  to  me,  that  pallid 
face,  those  despairing  eyes,  that  expression 
of  piteous  and  agonizing  entreaty,  those  wild 
words  of  horror  and  of  anguish.  There 
came  before  me  the  phantom  of  that  form 
which  I  had  upraised  from  the  ice  when  it 
had  sunk  down  in  lifelessness,  whose  white 
face  rested  on  my  shoulder  as  I  bore  it 
away  from  the  grasp  of  death ;  and  that 
vision,  with  all  its  solemn,  tragic  awfulness 
seemed  out  of  keeping  with  this.  Miss 
O'Halloran  ?  Impossible  !  But  yet  it 
must  be  so,  since  she  thus  confessed  it. 
My  own  memory  had  been  at  fault.  The 
face  on  the  ice  which  haunted  me  was  not 


the  face  that  I  saw  before  me ;  but,  then, 
Miss  O'Halloran  in  despair  must  have  a 
different  face  from  Miss  O'Halloran  in  her 
happy  and  peaceful  home.  All  these 
thoughts  passed  through  me  as  I  took  her 
hand  ;  but  they  left  me  with  the  impression 
that  my  vision  was  a  mistake,  and  that  this 
lady  was  in  very  deed  the  companion  of  that 
fearful  journey. 

I  pressed  her  hand  in  silence.  I  could 
not  speak.  Under  the  pressure  of  thoughts 
and  recollections  that  came  sweeping  in 
upon  me,  I  was  dumb  ;  and  so  I  wandered 
away,  and  fell  into  a  seat.  Yet,  in  my  stu 
pefaction,  I  could  see  that  Miss  O'Halloran 
showed  an  emotion  equal  to  mine.  She  had 
not  spoken  a  word.  She  sat  down,  with  her 
eyes  on  the  floor,  and  much  agitation  in  her 
manner. 

"  Nora,  me  pet,"  said  O'Halloran, "  haven't 
ye  any  exprission  of  gratichood  ?  " 

Miss  O'Halloran  raised  her  face,  and 
looked  at  me  with  earnest  eyes. 

"Indeed — indeed,"  she  said — "it  is  not 
from  want  of  gratitude  that  I  am  silent.  My 
gratitude  is  too  strong  for  words.  Lieuten 
ant  Macrorie  needs  no  assurance  of  mine,  I 
know,  to  convince  him  how  I  admire  his 
noble  conduct — " 

The  sound  of  her  voice  roused  me  from 
my  own  abstraction. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  I,  "  a  fellow  knows 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know ;  and  I  feel 
so  glad  about  the  service  I  was  able  to 
render  you,  that  I'm  positively  grateful  to 
you  for  being  there.  Odd,  though — wasn't 
it  ?— that  I  didn't  recognize  you.  But  then, 
you  see,  the  fact  is,  you  looked  so  different 
then  from  what  you  do  now.  Really,'  you 
seem  like  another  person — you  do,  by 
Jove ! " 

At  this  Miss  O'Halloran  looked  down,  and 
seemed  embarrassed. 

"  But  what  made  you  clear  out  so  soon 


O'HALLOEAN'S  AGAIN. 


from  the  Frenchman's  ?  "  said  I,  suddenly. 
"  You've  no  idea  how  it  bothered  me.  By 
Jove  !  it  didn't  seem  altogether  fair  to  me, 
you  know.  And  then  you  didn't  even  leave 
your  address." 

Miss  O'Halloran's  confusion  seemed  to 
increase.  She  murmured  something  about 
having  to  hurry  home — pressed  for  time — 
fear  of  her  friends  being  anxious — and  all 
that. 

Then  I  asked  her  anxiously  if  she  had 
been  any  the  worse  for  it. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  ;  "  no  ill  conse 
quences  had  resulted." 

By  this  time  I  had  sense  enough  to  per 
ceive  that  the  subject  was  an  extremely  un 
pleasant  one.  A  moment's  further  thought 
showed  me  that  it  couldn't  be  any  thing 
else.  Unpleasant !  I  should  think  so. 
Was  it  not  suggestive  of  sorrow  and  of 
despair  ?  Had  she  not  witnessed  things 
which  were  never  to  be  forgotten  ?  Had 
she  not  seen  her  hapless  driver  go  down 
beneath  the  icy  waters  ?  Had  she  not  her 
self  stood  face  to  face  with  an  awful  doom  ? 
Had  she  not  twice — yes,  and  thrice — tasted 
of  the  bitterness  of  death  ? 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  I,  as  these  thoughts 
came  to  me — "  it's  a  painful  subject.  I 
spoke  thoughtlessly ;  but  I  won't  allude  to 
it  again.  It  was  bad  enough  for  me ;  but 
it  must  have  been  infinitely  worse  for  you. 
The  fact  is,  my  curiosity  got  the  better  of 
my  consideration  for  your  feelings." 

"  That's  thrue,"  said  O'Halloran ;  "  it's  a 
peenful  subjict." 

At  this  Miss  O'Halloran  looked  immensely 
relieved.  She  raised  her  head,  and  involun 
tarily  cast  upon  me  a  touching  look  of  grati 
tude.  Yes ;  it  must,  indeed,  have  been  a 
painful  subject.  The  consciousness  of  this 
made  me  eager  to  make  amends  for  my 
fault,  and  so  I  began  to  rattle  on  in  a  lively 
strain  about  a  thousand  things ;  and  Miss 


O'Halloran,  seizing  the  opportunity  thus 
held  out  of  casting  dull  care  away,  at  once 
rose  superior  to  her  embarrassment  and 
confusion,  and  responded  to  my  advances 
with  the  utmost  liveliness  and  gayety.  The 
change  was  instantaneous  and  marked.  A 
moment  ago  she  had  been  constrained  and 
stiff  and  shy ;  now  she  was  gay  and  lively 
and  spirited.  This  change,  which  thus  took 
place  before  my  eyes,  served  in  some  meas 
ure  to  explain  that  difference  which  I  saw 
between  the  Lady  of  the  Ice  and  Miss 
O'Halloran  in  her  own  home. 

O'Halloran  himself  joined  in.  He  was 
gay,  and  genial,  and  jocose.  At  about  nine 
o'clock  Marion  came  in.  She  seemed  dull 
and  distrait.  She  gave  me  a  cold  hand,  and 
then  sat  down  in  silence.  She  did  not  say 
any  thing  whatever.  She  did  not  seem  even 
to  listen,  but  sat,  with  her  head  leaning  on 
her  hand,  like  one  whose  thoughts  are  far 
away.  Yet  there  was  a  glory  about  her 
sad  and  melancholy  beauty  which  could  not 
but  arrest  my  gaze,  and  often  and  often  I 
found  my  eyes  wandering  to  that  face  of 
loveliness.  Twice — yes,  three  times — as  my 
gaze  thus  wandered,  I  found  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  me  with  a  kind  of  eager  scrutiny — a 
fixed  intensity  which  actually  was  startling 
to  encounter.  And  strange,  vague,  wild, 
unformed  memories  arose,  and-  odjl  ideas, 
and  fantastic  suspicions.  Her  face  became 
thus  like  one  of  those  which  one  sees  in  a 
crowd  hastily,  and  then  loses,  only  to  rack 
his  brain  in  vain  endeavors  to  discover  who 
the  owner  of  the  face  might  be.  So  it  was 
with  me  as  I  saw  the  dark  face  and  the  lus 
trous  eyes  of  Marion. 

And  now,  'pon  my  life,  I  cannot  say  which 
one  of  these  two  excited  the  most  of  my 
admiration.  There  was  Nora,  with  her 
good-nature,  her  wit,  her  friendliness,  her 
witchery,  her  grace,  the  sparkle  of  her  eye, 
the  music  of  her  laugh.  But  there,  too, 


68 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


was  Marion,  whose  eyes  seemed  to  pierce 
to  my  soul,  as  twice  or  thrice  I  caught 
their  gaze,  and  whose  face  seemed  to  have 
some  weird  influence  over  me,  puzzling  and 
bewildering  me  by  suggestions  of  another 
face,  which  I  had  seen  before.  I  was  fasci 
nated  by  Nora ;  I  was  in  love  with  her ;  but 
by  Marion  I  was  thrown  under  a  spell. 

On  the  whole,  Nora  seemed  to  me  more 
sympathetic.  With  all  her  brightness  and 
joyousness,  there  was  also  a  strange  timid 
ity,  at  times,  and  shyness,  and  furtive  glan 
ces.  An  occasional  flush,  also,  gave  her  a 
sweet  confusion  of  manner,  which  height 
ened  her  charms.  All  these  were  signs 
which  I  very  naturally  interpreted  in  my 
own  favor.  What  else  should  I  do  ? 

I  have  been  calling  her  indiscriminately 
Miss  O'Halloran  and  Nora.  But  to  her  face 
I  did  not  call  her  by  any  name.  Nora,  of 
course,  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  On  the 
other  hand,  Miss  O'Halloran  seemed  too  dis 
tant.  For  the  memory  of  our  past  expe 
rience  made  me  feel  very  near  to  her,  and 
intimate.  Had  we  not  been  together  on  a 
journey  where  hours  create  the  familiari 
ties  of  years  ?  Was  not  her  life  mine  ?  In 
fact,  I  felt  to  her  as  a  man  feels  when  he 
meets  the  old  flame  of  his  boyhood.  She  is 
married,  and  has  passed  beyond  him.  But 
her  new  name  is  too  cold,  and  her  old  name 
may  not  be  used.  So  lie  calls  her  nothing. 
He  meets  her  as  a  friend,  but  does  not  know 
how  to  name  her. 

As  we  talked,  O'Halloran  sat  there,  and 
sometimes  listened,  and  sometimes  chimed 
in.  An  uncommonly  fine-looking  old  fel 
low  he  was,  too.  Although  about  sixty,  his 
form  was  as  erect  as  that  of  a  young  man, 
and  his  sinewy  limbs  gave  signs  of  great 
strength.  He  sat  in  an  easy-chair — his 
iron-gray  hair  clustering  .over  his  broad 
brow ;  his  eyes  keen,  penetrating,  but  full 
of  fun ;  his  nose  slightly  curved,  and  his 


lips  quivering  into  smiles  ;  small  whiskers 
of  a  vanished  fashion  on  either  cheek ;  and 
small  hands — a  right  royal,  good  fellow — 
witty,  intellectual,  and  awfully  eccentric — 
at  once  learned  and  boyish,  but  for  all  that 
perhaps  all  the  better  adapted  for  social  en 
joyment,  and  perhaps  I  may  add  convivial 
ity.  There  was  a  glorious  flow  of  animal 
spirits  in  the  man,  which  could  not  be  re 
pressed,  but  came  rolling  forth,  expressed 
in  his  rich  Leinster  brogue.  He  was  evi 
dently  proud  of  his  unparalleled  girls ;  but 
of  these  all  his  tenderness  seemed  to  go 
forth  toward  Nora.  To  her,  and  apparent 
ly  to  her  alone,  he  listened,  with  a  proud 
affection  in  his  face  and  in  his  eyes ;  while 
any  little  sally  of  hers  was  always  sure  to 
be  received  with  an  outburst  of  rollicking 
laughter,  which  was  itself  contagious,  and 
served  to  increase  the  general  hilarity. 

But  the  general  hilarity  did  not  extend  to 
Marion.  She  was  like  a  star,  and  sat  apart, 
listening  to  every  thing,  but  saying  noth 
ing.  I  caught  sometimes,  as  I  have  said, 
the  lustrous  gleam  of  her  eyes,  as  they 
pierced  me  with  their  earnest  gaze ;  and 
when  I  was  looking  at  Nora,  and  talking 
with  her,  I  was  conscious,  at  times,  of 
Marion's  eyes.  O'Halloran  did  not  look 
at  her,  or  speak  to  her.  Was  she  under 
a  cloud  ?  Was  this  her  usual  character  ? 
Or  was  she  sad  and  serious  with  the  press 
ure  of  some  secret  purpose?  Such  were 
my  thoughts  ;  but  then  I  suddenly  decided 
that  by  such  thoughts  I  was  only  making 
an  ass  of  myself,  and  concluded  that  it  was 
nothing  more  than  her  way.  If  so,  it  was 
an  uncommonly  impressive  way. 

The  ladies  retired  early  that  evening. 
Marion,  on  leaving,  gave  me  a  last  search 
ing  glance ;  while  Nora  took  leave  with  her 
most  bewildering  smile.  The  glance  and 
the  smile  both  struck  home;  but,  which 
affected  me  most,  it  is  impossible  to  say. 


"OUK  SYMPOSIUM.' 


69 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  OUR  SYMPOSIUM,"  AS  O'HALLORAN  CALLED 
IT. — HIGH  AND  MIGHTY  DISCOURSE. — GEN 
ERAL  INSPECTION  OP  ANTIQUITY  BY  A 
LEARNED  EYE. — A  DISCOURSE  UPON  THE 
"  OIONEESOIZIN "  OF  THE  ENGLISH  LAN 
GUAGE. — HOMERIC  TRANSLATIONS. — O'HAL- 
LORAN  AND  BURNS. — A  NEW  EPOCH  FOR  THE 
BROGUE. — THE  DINNER  OF  ACHILLES  AND 
THE  PALACE  OF  ANTINOUS. 

THE  servants  brought  us  the  generous 
preparations  for  the  evening — sugar,  spoons, 
hot  water,  tumblers,  and  several  other 
things. 

O'Halloran  began  by  expressing  his  grat 
itude,  and  saying  that  N"ora  could  not  speak 
on  the  subject.  He  hoped  I  would  see,  by 
that,  why  it  was  that  she  had  not  answered 
my  questions.  "Whereupon  I  hastened  to 
apologize  for  asking  questions  which  so 
harshly  reminded  her  of  a  terrible  tragedy. 
Our  mutual  explanations  were  soon  exhaust 
ed,  and  we  turned  to  subjects  in  general. 

As  our  symposium  proceeded,  O'Halloran 
grew  more  and  more  eloquent,  more  discur 
sive,  more  learned,  more  enthusiastic.  He 
didn't  expect  me  to  take  any  part  in  the 
conversation.  He  was  only  anxious  that  I 
should  "  take  it  hot,"  and  keep  my  pipe 
and  my  tumbler  well  in  hand.  He  was  like 
Coleridge,  and  Johnson,  and  other  great 
men  who  abhor  dialogues,  and  know  noth 
ing  but  monologues. 

On  this  occasion  he  monologued  on  the 
following  subjects :  The  Darwinian  hypo 
thesis,  the  positive  philosophy,  Protestant 
missions,  temperance  societies,  Fichte,  Les- 
sing,  Hegel,  Carlyle,  mummies,  the  Apoca 
lypse,  Maimonides,  John  Scotus  Erigena, 
the  steam-engine  of  Hero,  the  Serapeium, 
the  Dorian  Emigration,  and  the  Trojan 


War.  This  at  last  brought  him  on  the 
subject  of  Homer. 

He  paused  for  a  moment  here. 

"  D'ye  want  to  know,"  said  he, "  the  thrue 
business  of  me  loife,  an'  me  sowl  occupee- 
tion  ? " 

I  bowed  and  gave  a  feeble  smile.  I 
thought  of  Fenian  agencies  and  a  dozen 
other  things,  and  fancied  that  in  this  hour 
of  confidence  he  would  tell  all.  I  had  sev 
eral  times  wondered  why  he  lived  in  a  place 
which  he  hated  so,  and  had  a  vague  idea 
that  he  was  some  kind  of  a  secret  emis 
sary,  though  there  was  certainly  not  a 
single  thing  in  his  character  which  might 
warrant  such  a  supposition. 

"Me  object,"  said  O'Halloran,  looking 
solemnly  at  me,  "  and  the  whole  eem  of  me 
loife  is  the  Oioneesoizin  of  the  language  of 
the  Saxon.  He's  thrust  his  language  on  us, 
an'  my  eem  is  to  meek  it  our  oun,  to  Ulivate 
it — an'  by  one  schtoopindous  illusthreetion 
to  give  it  a  pleece  among  the  letherary  doia- 
licts  of  the  wurruld." 

"  Oioneesoizin  ?  "  said  I,  slowly. 

"Yis,  Oioneesoizin,"  said  O'Halloran. 
"  An'  I'm  going  to  do  this  by  mains  of  a 
thransleetion  of  Homer.  For  considher. 
Since  Chapman  no  thransleetion  has  been 
made.  Pope  and  Cowper  are  contimptible. 
Darby  is  onraydable.  Gladstone's  attimpt 
on  the  fust  buk,  an'  Mat  Arnold's  on  the 
seem,  an'  "Worsley's  Spinsayrians  are  all 
feelures.  Ye  see,  they  think  only  of  may- 
thers,  an'  don't  considher  doialicts.  Homer 
wrote  in  the  Oionic  doialict,  an'  shud  be 
thranslated  into  the  modern  ayquivalint  of 
that  same." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  I,  "  but  is  there  such 
an  equivalent  ?  " 

"  Yis,"  said  he,  solemnly.  "  Ye  see,  the 
Scotch  doialict  has  been  illivatid  into  a 
Doric  by  the  janius  of  a  Burruns ;  and  so 
loikewise  shall  the  Oirish  be  illivatid  into 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


an  Oioneean  doialict  by  the  janius  of  O'Hal- 
loran. 

"  For  Oirish  is  the  natural  an'  conjayneal 
ripriseentitive  of  the  ancient  Oioneean. 
It's  vowel-sounds,  its  diphthongs,  its  shu- 
perabundince  of  leginds,  all  show  this  most 
pleenly.  So,  too,  if  we  apploy  this  modern 
Oineean  to  a  thransleetion  of  Homer,  we 
see  it  has  schtoopindous  advantages.  The 
Homeric  neems,  the  ipithets,  and  the  woild 
alterneetion  of  dacthyls  an'  spondees,  may 
all  be  riprisinted  boy  a  neetive  and  conjay 
neal  mayther.  Take  for  a  spicimin  Barny 
O'Brallaglian.  "Twaa  on  a  windy  night 
about  two  o'clock  in  the  mornin.'  That  is 
the  neetive  misure  of  the  Oirish  bards,  an' 
is  iminintly  adapted  to  rendher  the  Homeric 
swinge.  It  consists  of  an  Oiambic  pinthi- 
mitir  followed  by  a  dacthylic  thripody ;  an' 
in  rhythm  projuices  the  effects  of  the  dac 
thylic  hixamitir.  Compeer  wid  this  the 
ballad  mayther,  an'  the  hayroic  mayther, 
and  the  Spinserian  stanzas,  of  "Worsley,  an' 
Gladstone's  Saxon  throchaics,  and  Darby's 
dull  blank  verse,  an'  the  litheral  prose,  an' 
Mat  Arnold's  attimpts  at  hixameters,  an' 
Dain  somebody's  hindicasyllabics.  They're 
one  an'  all  ayqually  contimptible.  But  in 
this  neetive  Oirish  loine  we  have  not  only 
doialictic  advantages,  but  also  an  ameezing 
number  of  others.  It's  the  doirict  ripri- 
siuteetive  of  the  Homiric  loine,  fust,  in  the 
number  of  fate ;  secindly,  in  the  saysural 
pause  ;  thirdly,  in  the  capaceetee  for  a  dac 
tylic  an'  spondaic  inding,  an'  fowerthly,  in 
the  shuperabundince  of  sonorous  ipithits 
and  rowling  syllabeefeeceetions.  An'  all 
this  I  can  prove  to  ye  by  spicimins  of  me 
oun  thransleetion." 

"With  this  he  went  to  a  Davenport  at 
one  end  of  the  room,  and  brought  out  a 
pile  of  manuscript  closely  written.  Then 
he  seated  himself  again. 

"  I'll  raid  ye  passages  here  an'  there," 


said  he.  "  The  fust  one  is  the  reception 
of  the  imbassy  by  Achilles."  Saying  this, 
he  took  the  manuscript  and  began  to  read 
the  following  in  a  very  rich,  broad  brogue, 
which  made  me  think  that  he  cultivated 
this  brogue  of  his  purposely,  and  out  of 
patriotic  motives,  from  a  desire  to  elevate 
his  loved  Irish  dialect  to  an  equality  with 
the  literary  standard  English  : 

" '  He  spake.    Pat  Kokles  heard,  an'  didn't  da- 

cloine  for  till  do  it, 
But  tuk  the  mate-thray  down,  an'  into  the 

foyre  he  threw  it : 
A  shape's  choine  an'  a  goat's  he  throwed  on 

top  of  the  platter, 
An'  wan  from  a  lovely  pig,  than  which  there 

wor  nivir  a  fatter ; 
Thase  O'Tommedon  tuk,  O'Kelly  devoided 

thim  nately, 
He  meed  mince-mate  av  thim  all,  an'  thin  he 

spitted  thim  swately; 
To  sich  entoicin'  fud  they  all  extinded  their 

arrums, 
Till  fud  and  dhrink  loikewise  had  lost  their 

jaynial  charrums ; 
Thin  Ajax  winked  at  Phaynix,  O'Dishes  take 

note  of  it  gayly, 
An'  powerin'  out  some  woine,  he  dhruuk  till 

the  health  ov  O'Kelly.' " 

After  this  he  read  the  description  of  the 
palace  of  Antinous  in  the  "  Odyssey: " 

"  '  For  beuchus  heights  ov  brass  aich  wee  wos 

firrumlee  buildid, 
From  the  front  dare  till  the  back,  an'  a  nate 

blue  corrinis  filled  it ; 
An'  there  was  gowldin  dures,  that  tastee 

dome  securin', 
An'  silver  posts  loikewise  that  slid  the  breez- 

in'  dure  in ; 
An'  lovely  gowldin  dogs  the  intherrance  wee 

stud  fast  in, 
Thim  same,  H.  Phaestus  meed,  which  had  a 

turrun  for  castin'. 
Widout  that  speecious  hall  there  grew  agyar- 

din,  be  Jakers ! 
A  flnce  purticts  that  eeeme  of  fower  (I  think 

it  is)  acres.' " 


THE  WOES  OF  A  LOVEE. 


I  have  but  an  indistinct  recollection  of  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  If  I  was  not  sound 
asleep,  I  must  have  been  in  a  semi-doze, 
retaining  just  sufficient  consciousness  to 
preserve  the  air  of  an  absorbed  listener.  I 
had  nothing  but  an  innumerable  multitude 
of  visions,  which  assumed  alternately  the 
shape  of  Nora  and  of  Marion.  When  at 
length  I  rose  to  go,  O'Halloran  begged  me 
to  stay  longer.  But,  on  looking  at  my 
watch,  I  found  it  was  half-past  three,  and 
so  suggested  in  a  general  way  that  perhaps 
I'd  better  be  in  bed.  Whereupon  he  in 
formed  me  that  he  would  not  be  at  home 
on  the  following  evening,  but  wouldn't  I 
come  the  evening  after.  I  told  him  I'd  be 
very  happy.  But  suddenly  I  recollected  an 
engagement.  "  Well,  will  you  be  at  leisure 
on  the  next  evening  ?  "  said  he.  I  told  him 
I  would  be,  and  so  I  left,  with  the  intention 
of  returning  on  the  third  evening  from  that 
time. 

I  got  home  and  went  to  bed  ;  and  in  my 
dreams  I  renewed  the  events  of  that  even 
ing.  Not  the  latter  part  of  it,  but  the  former 
part.  There,  before  me,  floated  the  forms 
of  Nora  and  of  Marion,  the  one  all  smiles, 
the  other  all  gloom — the  one  all  jest  and 
laughter,  the  other  silent  and  sombre — the 
one  casting  at  me  the  glowing  light  of  her 
soft,  innocent,  laughing  eyes ;  the  other 
flinging  at  me  from  her  dark,  lustrous  orbs 
glances  that  pierced  my  soul.  I'm  an  im 
pressible  man.  I  own  it.  I  can't  help  it. 
I  was  so  made.  I'm  awfully  susceptible. 
And  so,  'pon  my  honor,  for  the  life  of  me 
I  couldn't  tell  which  I  admired  most  of 
these  two  fascinating,  bewildering,  lovely, 
bewitching,  yet  totally  different  beings. 
"  Oh,  Nora !  "  I  cried — and  immediately 
after,  "  Oh,  Marion  I  " 


CHAPTER  XXL 

JACK  ONCE  MOKE. — THE  WOES  OF  A  LOVER. — 
NOT  WISELY  BUT  TOO  MANY. — WHILE  JACK 
IS  TELLING  HIS  LITTLE  STORY,  THE  ONES 
WHOM  HE  THUS  ENTERTAINS  HAVE  A  SEPA 
RATE  MEETING. — THE  BURSTING  OF  THE 
STORM. — THE  LETTER  OF  "  NUMBER  THREE." 
— THE  WIDOW  AND  MISS  PHILLIPS. — JACK 
HAS  TO  AVAIL  HIMSELF  OF  THE  AID  OF  A 
CHAPLAIN  OF  HER  MAJESTY'S  FORCES. — 
JACK  AN  INJURED  MAN. 

IT  was  late  on  the  following  morning 
when  I  rose.  I  expected  to  see  Jack  boun 
cing  in,  but  there  were  no  signs  of  him.  I 
went  about  on  my  usual  round,  but  he  didn't 
turn  up.  I  asked  some  of  the  other  fellows, 
but  none  of  them  had  seen  him.  I  began  to 
be  anxious.  Duns  were  abroad.  Jack  was 
in  peril.  The  sheriff  was  near.  There  was 
no  joke  in  it.  Perhaps  he  was  nabbed,  or 
perhaps  he  was  in  hiding.  The  fact  that 
no  one  had  seen  him  was  a  very  solemn  and 
a  very  portentous  one.  I  said  nothing  about 
my  feelings,  but,  as  the  day  wore  on  without 
bringing  any  sign  of  him,  I  began  to  be 
more  anxious  ;  and  as  the  evening  came  I 
retired  to  my  den,  and  there  thoughts  of 
Jack  intermingled  themselves  with  visions 
of  Nora  and  Marion. 

The  hours  of  that  evening  passed  very 
slowly.  If  I  could  have  gone  to  O'Hallo- 
ran's,  I  might  have  forgotten  my  anxiety ; 
but,  as  I  couldn't  go  to  O'Halloran's,  I  could 
not  get  rid  of  my  anxiety.  What  had  be 
come  of  him  ?  Was  he  in  limbo  ?  Had  he 
taken  Louie's  advice  and  flitted  ?  Was  he 
now  gnashing  his  splendid  set  of  teeth  in 
drear  confinement ;  or  was  he  making  a 
fool  of  himself,  and  an  ass,  by  persisting  in 
indulging  in  sentiment  with  Louie  ? 

In  the  midst  of  these  cogitations,  eleven 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


o'clock  came,  and  a  few  moments  after  in 
bounced  Jack  himself. 

I  met  him  as  the  prodigal  son  was  met  by 
his  father. 

He  was  gloomy.  There  was  a  cloud  on 
his  broad,  Jovian,  hilarious,  Olympian  brow, 
with  its  clustering  ambrosial  locks. 

"  Jack,  old  fellow !  You  come  like  sun 
shine  through  a  fog.  I've  been  bothering 
about  you  all  day.  Have  you  been  nabbed  ? 
Are  the  duns  abroad  ?  Has  the  sheriff  in 
vited  you  to  a  friendly  and  very  confidential 
conversation  ?  You  haven't  been  here  for 
two  days." 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  said  Jack,  "  I  was  here 
last  night,  and  waited  till  three,  and  then 
walked  off  to  sleep  on  it.  You're  up  to 
something  yourself,  old  man,  but  look  out. 
Take  warning  by  me.  Don't  plunge  in  too 
deep.  For  my  part,  I  haven't  the  heart 
to  pursue  the  subject.  I've  got  beyond 
the  head-stone  even.  The  river's  the  place 
for  me.  But,  Macrorie,  promise  me  one 
thing." 

"  Oh,  of  course — all  right — go  ahead." 

"  Well,  if  I  jump  into  the  river,  don't  let 
them  drag  for  me.  Let  me  calmly  drift 
away,  and  be  borne  off  into  the  Atlantic 
Ocean.  I  want  oblivion.  Hang  head 
stones !  Let  Anderson  slide." 

Saying  this,  Jack  crammed  some  tobacco 
into  his  pipe,  lighted  it,  flung  himself  into 
a  chair,  and  began  smoking  most  vigorous 
ly.  I  watched  him  for  some  time  in  silence. 
There  was  a  dark  cloud  on  his  sunny  brow ; 
he  looked  woe-begone  and  dismal,  and, 
though  such  expressions  were  altogether 
out  of  harmony  with  the  style  of  his  face, 
yet  to  a  friendly  eye  they  were  sufficiently 
visible.  I  saw  that  something  new  had 
occurred.  So  I  waited  for  a  time,  think 
ing  that  he  would  volunteer  his  confidence ; 
but,  as  he  did  not,  I  thought  I  would  ask 
for  it. 


"  By  Jove ! "  said  I,  at  last.  "  Hang  it, 
Jack,  do  you  know,  old  man,  you  seem  to 
be  awfully  cut  up  about  something — hit 
hard — and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  What's 
up  ?  Any  thing  new  ?  Out  with  it — clean 
breast,  and  all  that.  Ton  my  life,  I  never 
saw  you  so  cut  up  before.  What  is 
it?" 

Jack  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
rubbed  his  forehead  violently,  stared  at 
me  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  slowly 
ejaculated  • 

"  There's  a  beastly  row — tremendous — 
no  end — that's  what  there  is." 

"Arow?" 

"  Yes — no  end  of  a  row." 

"  Who  ?     What  ?     Which  of  them  ?  " 

"All  of  them.  Yesterday,  and  to-day, 
and  to  be  continued  to-morrow.  Such  is 
life.  Sic  transit,  et  cetera.  Good  Lord! 
Macrorie,  what's  a  fellow  to  do  but  drown 
himself?  Yes,  my  boy — oblivion!  that's 
what  I  want.  And  I'll  have  it.  This  life 
isn't  the  thing  for  me.  I  was  never  made 
to  be  badgered.  The  chief  end  of  man  is 
for  other  things  than  getting  snubbed  by 
woman.  And  I'm  not  going  to  stand  it. 
Here,  close  by,  is  a  convenient  river.  I'll 
seek  an  acquaintance  with  its  icy  tide, 
rather  than  have  another  day  like  this." 

"  But  I'm  all  in  the  dark.  Tell  what  it 
is  that  has  happened." 

Jack  inhaled  a  few  more  whiffs  of  the 
smoke  that  cheers  but  not  inebriates,  and 
then  found  voice  to  speak : 

"  You  see  it  began  yesterday.  I  started 
off  at  peace  with  the  world,  and  went  most 
dutifully  to  call  on  Miss  Phillips.  Well,  I 
went  in  and  found  her  as  cool  as  an  icicle. 
I  didn't  know  what  was  up,  and  proceeded 
to  do  the  injured  innocent.  Whereupon  she 
turned  upon  me,  and  gave  it  to  me  then  and 
there,  hot  and  heavy.  I  didn't  think  it  was 
in  her.  I  really  didn't — by  Jove  !  The  way 


THE  WOES  OF  A  LOVEE. 


she  gave  it  to  me,"  and  Jack  paused  in 
wonder. 

"What  about?  "said  I. 

"  The  widow ! "  groaned  Jack. 

"  The  widow  ?  "  I  repeated. 

"Yes— the  widow." 

"But  how  did  she  hear  about  it  so 
soon?" 

"  Oh,  easy  enough.  It's  all  over  town 
now,  you  know.  Her  friends  here  heard  of 
it,  and  some  were  incredulous,  and  others 
were  indignant.  At  any  rate,  both  classes 
rushed  with  delightful  unanimity  to  inform 
her,  so  you  may  imagine  the  state  of  mind 
I  found  her  in. 

"  You  can  easily  imagine  what  she  said. 
I  don't  think  much  of  your  imagination, 
Macrorie,  but  in  this  case  it  don't  require 
a  very  vivid  one.  The  worst  of  it  is,  she 
was  quite  right  to  feel  indignant.  The 
only  thing  about  it  all  that  gave  me  the 
smallest  relief,  was  the  fact  that  she  didn't 
do  the  pathetic.  She  didn't  shed  a  tear. 
She  simply  questioned  me.  She  was  as 
stiff  as  a  ramrod,  and  as  cold  as  a  stone. 
There  was  no  mercy  in  her,  and  no  con 
sideration  for  a  fellow's  feelings.  She  suc 
ceeded  in  making  out  that  I  was  the  most 
contemptible  fellow  living." 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Say  ?  What  could  I  say  ?  She  forced 
me  to  own  up  about  the  widow.  Hang  it, 
you  know  I  can't  lie.  So,  after  trying  to 
dodge  her  questions,  I  answered  them.  She 
wouldn't  let  me  dodge  them.  But  there 
was  one  thing  left.  I  swore  to  her,  by  all 
that  was  true,  that  I  didn't  care  a  fig  for  the 
widow,  that  my  engagement  with  her  arose 
altogether  through  a  mistake.  She  pressed 
me  hard  on  this,  and  I  had  to  tell  this 
too." 

"What?  Look  here,  Jack— you  didn't 
drag  in  Louie  into  your  confounded  scrape  ?  " 

"Do  you  think  I'm  such  a  villain  as 


that  ?  "  said  Jack,  indignantly.  "  No— of 
course  I  didn't.  Louie — I'd  die  first.  No. 
I  told  her  some  story  about'  ffcy  mistaking 
her  for  a  friend,  whose  name  I  didn't  men 
tion.  I  told  her  that  I  took  the  widow's 
hand  by  mistake — just  in  fun,  you  know — 
thinking  it  was  my  friend,  and  all  that ;  and 
before  I  knew  it  the  widow  had  nabbed 
me." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  she  didn't  condescend  to  ask  the 
name  of  my  friend.  She  thought  the  wid 
ow  was  enough  at  a  time,  I  suppose,  and  so 
she  asked  me  about  the  state  of  my  feelings 
toward  her.  And  here  I  expressed  myself 
frankly.  I  told  her  that  my  only  desire 
was  to  get  out  of  her  clutches — that  it  was 
all  a  mistake,  and  that  I  was  in  an  infernal 
scrape,  and  didn't  know  how  to  get  out 
of  it. 

"  Such  strong  language  as  this  mollified 
her  a  little,  and  she  began  to  believe  me. 
Yet  she  did  not  soften  altogether.  At  last, 
I  pitched  into  the  widow  hot  and  heavy. 
This  restored  her  to  her  usual  self.  She 
forgave  me  altogether.  She  even  said  that 
she  was  sorry  for  me.  She  hinted,  too,  that 
if  she  ever  saw  the  widow,  she'd  have  it  out 
with  her." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  "  said  I.  "  Keep  them 
apart,  Jack,  if  you  can," 

Jack  groaned. 

"  So  it's  all  right,  is  it  ?  I  congratulate 
you — as  far  as  it's  worth  congratulation, 
you  know.  So  you  got  out  of  it,  did  you  ? 
A  'full,  fresh,  frank,  free,  formal,  ample, 
exhaustive,  and  perfectly  satisfactory  expla 
nation,'  hey  ?  That's  the  style  of  thing,  is 
it?" 

Jack  gnashed  his  teeth. 

"  Come,  now — old  boy — no  chaff.  I'm 
beyond  that.  Can't  stand  it.  Fact  is,  you 
haven't  heard  the  whole  story  yet,  and  I 
don't  feel  like  telling  the  rest  of  it,  if  you 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


interrupt  a  fellow  with  your  confounded 
humbug." 

"Go  ahead — don't  fear,  Jack — I  won't 
chaff" 

Jack  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Well,  then — I  took  her  out  for  a  drive. 
We  had  a  very  good  time,  though  both  of 
us  were  a  little  preoccupied,  and  I  thought 
she  had  altered  awfully  from  what  she  used 
to  be ;  and  then,  you  know,  after  leaving 
her,  I  went  to  see  the  widow." 

"  You  didn't  tell  her  where  you  were  go 
ing,  of  course  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Jack,  with  a  sigh.  "Well, 
you  see,  I  went  to  the  widow,  and  I  found 
that  she  had  heard  about  my  calling  on  Miss 
Phillips,  and  driving  out  with  her  for  a  cou 
ple  of  hours,  and  I  don't  know  what  else. 
She  was  calm,  and  quiet",  and  cool,  and  sim 
ply  wanted  to  know  what  it  all  meant.  Well, 
do  you  know  that  sort  of  coolness  is  the 
very  thing  that  I  can't  stand.  If  she'd 
raved  at  me,  or  scolded,  or  been  passionate, 
or  gone  on  in  any  kind  of  a  way,  I  could 
have  dealt  with  her ;  but  with  a  person  like 
that,  who  is  so  calm,  and  cool,  and  quiet,  I 
haven't  the  faintest  idea  how  to  act. 

"I  mumbled  something  or  other  about 
'old  friendship' — 'stranger  in  a  strange 
land' — horrid  rot — what  an  ass  she  must 
have  thought  me ! — but  that's  the  way  it 
was.  She  didn't  say  any  thing.  She  began 
to  talk  about  something  else  in  a  conven 
tional  way  —  the  weather,  I  think.  I 
couldn't  do  any  thing.  I  made  a  vague 
attempt  at  friendly  remonstrance  with  her 
about  her  coolness;  but  she  didn't  notice 
it.  She  went  on  talking  about  the  weather. 
She  was  convinced  that  it  would  snow.  I, 
for  my  part,  was  convinced  that  there  was 
going  to  be  a  storm — a  hurricane — a  tor 
nado — any  thing.  But  she  only  smiled  at 
my  vehemence,  and  finally  I  left,  with  a  gen 
eral  idea  that  there  was  thunder  in  the  air. 


"  Well,  you  know,  I  then  went  off  to  see 
Louie.  But  I  didn't  get  any  satisfaction 
there.  The  other  girls  were  present,  and 
the  aunt.  There  wasn't  any  whist,  and  so 
I  had  to  do  the  agreeable  to  the  whole 
party.  I  waited  until  late,  in  the  hope  that 
some  chance  might  turn  up  of  a  private  chat 
with  Louie,  but  none  came.  So  at  last  I 
came  home,  feeling  'a  general  disgust  with 
the  world  and  the  things  of  the  world." 

"  Rather  hard,  that,"  said  I,  as  Jack  re 
lapsed  into  moody  silence. 

"  Hard  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  that  was  yester 
day,  but  it  was  nothing  to  what  I  met  with 
to-day." 

"To-day? — why,  what's  up  worse  than 
that?" 

"  Every  thing.  But  I'll  go  on  and  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it.  Only  don't  laugh  at 
me,  Hacrorie,  or  I'll  cut." 

"  Laugh  ?     Do  I  ever  laugh  ?  " 

Jack  took  a  few  more  puffs,  and  relieved 
his  sorrow-laden  breast  by  several  prelim 
inary  and  preparatory  sighs,  after  which  he 
proceeded : 

"  To-day,"  he  began,  "  I  got  up  late.  I 
felt  heavy.  I  anticipated  a  general  row.  I 
dressed.  I  breakfasted,  and,  just  as  I  was 
finishing,  the  row  began.  A  letter  was 
brought  in  from  the  post-office.  It  was 
from  Number  Three." 

"  Number  Three  ?  "  I  cried. 

"Number  Three,"  repeated  Jack.  "As 
if  it  wasn't  bad  enough  already,  she  must 
come  forward  to  add  herself  to  those  who 
were  already  crushing  me  to  the  earth,  and 
driving  me  mad.  It  seemed  hard,  by  Jove ! 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  old  chap,  nobody's  so 
remorseless  as  a  woman.  Even  my  duns 
have  been  more  merciful  to  me  than  these 
friends  whom  I  love.  It's  too  bad,  by  Jove, 
it  is! 

"  Well.  Number  Three's  letter  was  sim 
ply  tremendous.  She  had  heard  every 


THE  WOES  OF  A  LOVEE. 


thing.  I've  already  told  you  that  she 
keeps  the  run  of  me  pretty  well,  though 
how  she  manages  it  I  can't  imagine — and 
now  it  seems  she  heard,  on  the  same  day, 
of  my  engagement  to  the  widow,  and  of  the 
arrival  of  Miss  Phillips,  to  whom  I  was  also 
engaged.  This  news  seemed  to  drive  her 
wild  with  indignation.  She  mentioned  these 
facts  to  me,  and  ordered  me  to  deny  them 
at  once.  She  declared  that  it  was  impossi 
ble  for  any  gentleman  to  act  so  'dishonora 
bly,  and  said  that  nothing  but  the  charac 
ter  of  her  informant  could  lead  her  to  ask 
me  to  deny  such  foul  slanders. 

"  That's  the  way  she  put  it.  That's  the 
style  of  thing  she  flung  at  me  when  I  was 
already  on  my  back.  That's  Number  Three 
for  you !  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  I  don't 
know  what  to  say  in  reply.  I  tell  you 
what  it  is  now,  Macrorie,  that  was  a  pretty 
tough  beginning  for  the  day.  I  felt  it,  and 
I  left  my  room  with  a  dark  presentiment  in 
my  mind,  and  the  same  general  idea  of  a 
brooding  thunder-storm,  which  I  had  expe 
rienced  the  evening  before. 

"  Then  I  went  to  see  Miss  Phillips,  and 
this  was  my  frame  of  mind.  I  found  her 
calm,  cold,  and  stiff  as  an  iceberg.  Not  a 
single  kind  word.  No  consideration  for  a 
fellow  at  all.  I  implored  her  to  tell  me 
what  was  the  matter.  She  didn't  rail  at 
me  ;  she  didn't  reproach  me ;  but  proceed 
ed  in  the  same  cruel,  inconsiderate,  iceberg 
fashion,  to  tell  me  what  the  matter  was. 
And  I  tell  you,  old  boy,  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it  was,  there  was  the  very  mis 
chief  to  pay,  and  the  last  place  in  Quebec 
that  I  ought  to  have  entered  was  that  par 
ticular  place.  But  then,  how  did  I  know  V 
Besides,  I  wanted  to  see  her." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  I  asked,  seeing  Jack 
hesitate. 

"What!  Why,  who  do  you  think  had 
been  there  ?  The  widow  herself !  She  had 


come  to  call  on  Miss  Phillips,  and  came 
with  a  fixed  design  on  me.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  she  managed  to  introduce  my  name. 
Trotting  me  out  in  that  fashion  doesn't 
strike  me  as  being  altogether  fair,  but  she 
did  it.  Mrs.  Llewelopen,  who  is  Miss  Phil- 
lips's  aunt,  took  her  up  rather  warmly,  and 
informed  her  that  I  was  engaged  to  Miss 
Phillips.  The  widow  smiled,  and  said  I  was 
a  sad  man,  for  I  had  told  her,  when  I  en 
gaged  myself  to  her,  that  my  affair  with 
Miss  Phillips  was  all  broken  off,  and  had 
repeated  the  same  thing  two  evenings  be 
fore.  She  also  informed  them  that  I  visited 
her  every  day,  and  was  most  devoted.  To 
all  this  Miss  Phillips  had  to  listen,  and 
could  not  say  one  word.  She  had  sense 
enough,  however,  to  decline  any  altercation 
with  the  widow,  and  reserve  her  remarks 
for  me.  And  now,  old  boy,  you  see  what  I 
caught  on  entering  the  presence  of  Miss 
Phillips.  She  did  not  weep ;  she  did  not 
sigh ;  she  did  not  reproach ;  she  did  not 
cry — she  simply  questioned  me,  standing 
before  me  cold  and  icy,  and  flinging  her 
bitter  questions  at  me.  The  widow  had 
said  this  and  that.  The  widow  had  repeat 
ed  such  and  such  words  of  mine.  The  wid 
ow  had  also  subjected  her  to  bitter  shame 
and  mortification.  And  what  had  I  to  say  ? 
She  was  too  much  of  a  lady  to  denounce  or 
to  scold,  and  too  high-hearted  even  to  taunt 
me ;  too  proud,  too  lofty,  to  deign  to  show 
that  she  felt  the  cut ;  she  only  questioned 
me  ;  she  only  asked  me  to  explain  such  and 
such  things.  Well,  I  tried  to  explain,  and 
gave  a  full  and  frank  account  of  every 
thing,  and,  as  far  as  the  widow  was  con 
cerned,  I  was  perfectly  truthful.  I  declared 
again  that  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  that  I'd 
give  any  thing  to  get  rid  of  her.  This  was 
all  perfectly  true,  but  it  wasn't  by  any 
means  satisfactory  to  Miss  Phillips.  She's 
awfully  high-strung,  you  know.  She 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


couldn't  overlook  the  fact  that  I  had  given 
the  widow  to  understand  that  it  was  all 
broken  off  with  us.  I  had  never  said  so,- 
but  I  had  let  the  widow  think  so,  and  that 
was  enough. 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  got  huffy  at  last,  and 
said  she  didn't  make  allowances  for  a  fel 
low,  and  all  that.  I  told  her  that  I  was 
awfully  careless,  and  was  always  getting 
into  confounded  scrapes,  but  that  it  would 
all  turn  out  right  in  the  end,  and  some  day 
she'd  understand  it  all.  Finally,  I  felt  so 
confoundedly  mean,  and  so  exactly  like 
some  infernal  whipped  cur,  that  I  then  and 
there  asked  her  to  take  me,  on  the  spot, 
as  I  was,  and  fulfil  her  vow  to  me.  I  swore 
that  the  widow  was  nothing  to  me,  and 
wished  she  was  in  Jericho.  At  this  she 
smiled  slightly,  and  said  that  I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  saying,  and,  in  fact,  declined  my 
self-sacrificing  offer.  So  there  I  was — and 
I'll  be  hanged,  Macrorie,  isn't  it  odd? — 
there's  the  third  person  that's  refused  to 
marry  me  off-hand !  I  vow  I  did  what  I 
could.  I  offered  to  marry  her  at  once,  and 
she  declined  just  as  the  others  did.  With 
that  I  turned  the  tables  on  her,  reproached 
her  for  her  coldness,  told  her  that  I  had 
given  her  the  highest  possible  mark  of  my 
regard,  and  bade  her  adieu.  We  shook 
hands.  Hers  was  very  languid,  and  she 
looked  at  me  quite  indifferently.  I  told 
her  that  she'd  feel  differently  to-morrow, 
and  she  said  perhaps  she  might.  And  so 
I  left  her. 

"  Well,  then,  I  had  the  widow  to  visit, 
but  the  letter  and  the  affair  with  Miss  Phil 
lips  had  worn  out  my  resources.  In  any 
ordinary  case,  the  widow  was  too  many 
guns  for  me,  but,  in  a  case  like  this,  she 
was  formidable  beyond  all  description.  So 
I  hunted  up  the  chaplain,  and  made  him  go 
with  me.  He's  a  good  fellow,  and  is  ac 
quainted  with  her  a  little,  and  I  knew  that 


she  liked  him.     So  we  went  off  there  to 
gether.     Well,  do  you  know,  Macrorie,  I 
relieve  that  woman  saw  through  the  whole 
thing,  and  knew  why  the  chaplain  had  come 
as  well  as  I  did.     She  greeted  me  civilly, 
but  rather  shortly ;  and  there  was  a  half- 
smile  on  her  mouth,  confound  it !     She's  an 
awfully  pretty  woman,  too  !    We  were  there 
for  a  couple  of  hours.     She  made  us  dine — 
that  is  to  say,  I  expected  to  dine  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course,  and  she  invited  the  chaplain. 
So  we  stayed,  and  I  think  for  two  hours  I 
did  not  exchange  a  dozen  words  with  her. 
She  directed  her  conversation  almost  exclu 
sively  to  the  chaplain.     I  began  to  feel  jeal 
ous  at  last,  and  tried  to  get  her  attention, 
but  it  was  no  go.     I'm  rather  dull,  you  know 
— good-natured,  and  all  that,  but  not  clever 
— while  the  chaplain  is  one  of  the  cleverest 
men  going ;  and  the  widow's  awfully  clever, 
too.      They  got  beyond  me  in  no  time. 
They  were  talking  all  sorts  of  stuff  about 
Gregorian  chants,  ecclesiastic  symbolism, 
mediaeval   hymns,  the  lion  of   St.   Mark, 
chasuble,  alb,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know,  no  end,  and  I  sat  like  a  log  lis 
tening,  just  the  same  as  though  they  spoke 
Chinese,  while  the  widow  took  no  more 
notice  of  me  than  if  I'd  been  a  Chinaman. 
And   she  kept  up  that  till  we  left.     And 
that  was  her  way  of  paying  me  off.     And 
the  chaplain  thought  she  was  an  awfully 
clever  woman,  and  admired  her — no  end. 
And  I  felt  as  jealous  as  Othello. 

"  Then  I  hurried  off  to  Louie.  But  luck 
was  against  me.  There  was  a  lot  of  fel 
lows  there,  and  I  didn't  get  a  chance.  I 
only  got  a  pleasant  greeting  and  a  bright 
look,  that  was  all.  I  was  longing  to  get 
her  into  a  corner,  and  have  a  little  comfort, 
and  a  little  good  advice.  But  I  couldn't. 
Misfortunes  never  come  singly.  To-day 
every  thing  has  been  blacker  than  mid 
night.  Number  Three,  Miss  Phillips,  and 


I  EEVEAL  MY  SECEET. 


the  widow,  are  all  turning  against  a  fellow. 
I  think  it's  infernally  hard.  I  feel  Miss 
Phillips's  treatment  worst.  She  had  no 
business  to  come  here  at  all  when  I  thought 
she  was  safe  in  New  Brunswick.  I  dare 
say  I  could  have  wriggled  through,  but  she 
came  and  precipitated  the  catastrophe,  as 
the  saying  is.  Then,  again,  why  didn't  she 
take  me  when  I  offered  myself  ?  And,  for 
that  matter,  why  didn't  Number  Three  take 
me  that  other  time  when  I  was  ready,  and 
asked  her  to  fly  with  me  ?  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I  don't  think  I've  had  an  abominably  hard 
time  of  it  1  And  now  I'm  fairly  cornered, 
and  you  must  see  plainly  why  I'm  thinking 
of  the  river.  If  I  take  to  it,  they'll  all 
mourn,  and  even  Louie'll  shed  a  tear  over 
me,  I  know  ;  whereas,  if  I  don't,  they'll  all 
pitch  into  me,  and  Louie'll  only  laugh. 
Look  here,  old  boy,  I'll  give  up  women  for 
ever." 

"  What !    And  Louie,  too  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  a  different  thing  altogether," 
said  Jack ;  and  he  subsided  into  a  deep  fit 
of  melancholy  musing. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

I  REVEAL  MY  SECRET. — TREMENDOUS  EFFECTS 
OF  THE  REVELATION. — MUTUAL  EXPLANA 
TIONS,  WHICH  ARE  BY  NO  MEANS  SATIS 
FACTORY. — JACK  STANDS  UP  FOR  WHAT  HE 
CALLS  HIS  RIGHTS. — REMONSTRANCES  AND 
REASONINGS,  ENDING  IN  A  GENERAL  ROW. 
— JACK  MAKES  A  DECLARATION  OP  WAR, 
AND  TAKES  HIS  DEPARTURE  IN  A  STATE  OF 
UNPARALLELED  HUFFINESS. 

I  COULD  hold  out  no  longer.  I  had  pre 
served  my  secret  jealously  for  two  entire 
days,  and  my  greater  secret  had  been  seeth 
ing  in  my  brain,  and  all  that,  for  a  day. 
Jack  had  given  me  his  entire  confidence. 
Why  shouldn't  I  give  him  mine  ?  I  longed 


to  tell  him  all.  I  had  told  him  of  my  adven 
ture,  and  why  should  I  not  tell  of  its  happy 
termination  ?  Jack,  too,  was  fairly  and 
thoroughly  in  the  dumps,  and  it  would  be  a 
positive  boon  to  him  if  I  could  lead  his 
thoughts  away  from  his  own  sorrows  to  my 
very  peculiar  adventures. 

"  Jack,"  said  I,  at  last,  "  I've  something 
to  tell  you." 

"  Go  ahead,"  cried  Jack,  from  the  further 
end  of  his  pipe. 

"  It's  about  the  Lady  of  the  Ice,"  said  I. 

"  Is  it?  "  said  Jack,  dolefully. 

"  Yes ;  would  you  like  to  hear  about 
it?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Jack,  in  the 
same  tone. 

Whereupon  I  began  with  the  evening  of 
the  concert,  and  told  him  all  about  the  old 
man,  and  my  rush  to  the  rescue.  I  gave  a 
very  animated  description  of  the  scene,  but, 
finding  that  Jack  did  not  evince  any  par 
ticular  interest,  I  cut  it  all  short. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  won't  bore  you.  I'll 
merely  state  the  leading  facts.  I  got  the 
old  fellow  out.  He  took  my  arm,  and  in 
sisted  on  my  going  home  with  him.  I  went 
home,  and  found  there  the  Lady  of  the 
Ice." 

"  Odd,  too,"  said  Jack,  languidly,  puffing 
out  a  long  stream  of  smoke ;  "•  don't  see 
how  you  recognized  her — thought  you  didn't 
remember,  and  all  that.  So  youVe  found 
her  at  last,  have  you  ?  Well,  my  dear  fel 
low,  'low  me  to  congratulate  you.  Deuced 
queer,  too.  By-the-way,  what  did  you  say 
her  name  was  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mention  her  name,"  said  I. 

"  Ah,  I  see  ;  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  care 
about  knowing." 

"Bosh!  Course  I'd  care.  What  was 
it,  old  boy  ?  Tell  a  fellow.  I'll  keep  dark 
— you  know  me." 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  Her  name,"  said  I,  "  is  Miss  O'Hallo 
ran." 

No  sooner  had  I  uttered  that  name,  than 
an  instantaneous  and  most  astonishing 
change  came  over  the  whole  face,  the  whole 
air,  the  whole  manner,  the  whole  expression, 
and  the  whole  attitude,  of  Jack  Kandolph. 
He  sprang  up  to  his  feet,  as  though  he  had 
been  shot,  and  the  pipe  fell  from  his  hands 
on  the  floor,  where  it  lay  smashed. 

"  WHAT  II!"  he  cried,  in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Look  here,"  said  I — "  what  may  be  the 
meaning  of  all  that?  What's  the  row 
now  ?  " 

"  What  name  did  you  say  ? "  he  re 
peated. 

"  Miss  O'Halloran,"  said  I. 

"  O'Halloran  ?  "  said  he  —  "  arc  you 
sure  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I'm  sure.  How  can  I  be 
mistaken  ?  " 

"  And  her  father — what  sort  of  a  man  is 
he?" 

"  A  fine  old  fellow,"  said  I—"  full  of  fun, 
well  informed,  convivial,  age  about  sixty, 
well  preserved,  splendid  face — " 

"  Is — is  he  an  Irishman  ?  "  asked  Jack, 
with  deep  emotion. 

"  Yes." 

"Does  —  does  he  live  in  —  in  Queen 
Street  ?  "  asked  Jack,  with  a  gasp. 

"  The  very  street,"  said  I. 

"  Number  seven  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  ?  " 

"  The  very  number.  But  see  here,  old 
chap,  how  the  mischief  do  you  happen  to 
know  so  exactly  all  about  that  house  ?  It 
strikes  me  as  being  deuced  odd." 

"  And  you  saved  her  ?  "  said  Jack,  with 
out  taking  any  notice  of  my  question. 

"  Haven't  I  just  told  you  so  ?  Oh,  both 
er  !  What's  the  use  of  all  this  fuss  ?  " 

"  Miss  O'Halloran?  "  said  Jack. 

"Miss  O'Halloran,"  I  repeated.     "But 


will  you  allow  me  to  ask  what  in  the  name 
of  common-sense  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
Is  there  a  bee  in  your  bonnet,  man  ? 
What's  Miss  O'Halloran  to  you,  or  you  to 
Miss  O'Halloran  ?  Haven't  you  got  enough  • 
women  on  your  conscience  already?  Do 
you  mean  to  drag  her  in?  Don't  try  it, 
my  boy — for  I'm  concerned  there." 

"  Miss  O'Halloran ! "  cried  Jack.  "  Look 
here,  Macrorie — you'd  better  take  care." 

"  Take  care  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  go  humbugging  about 
there." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  up  to,  dear 
boy.  What's  your  little  joke  ?  " 

"  There's  no  joke  at  all  about  it,"  said 
Jack,  harshly.  "  Do  you  know  who  Miss 
O'Halloran  is  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  know  that  she's  the  daughter 
of  Mr.  O'Halloran,  and  that  he's  a  fine  old 
fellow.  Any  further  information,  however, 
I  shall  be  delighted  to  receive.  You  talk 
as  though  you  knew  something  about  her. 
What  is  it  ?  But  don't  slander.  Not  a 
word  against  her.  That  I  won't  stand." 

"  Slander !  A  word  against  her  !  "  cried 
Jack.  "  Macrorie,  you  don't  know  who  she 
is,  or  what  she  is  to  me.  Macrorie,  this 
Miss  O'Halloran  is  that  lady  that  we  have 
been  calling  '  Number  Three.'  " 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  confounded. 
I,  too,  started  to  my  feet,  and  not  only 
my  pipe,  but  my  tumbler  also,  fell  crash 
ing  on  the  floor. 

"  The  devil  she  is  !  "  I  cried. 

"  She  is — I  swear  she  is— as  true  as  I'm 
alive." 

At  this  moment  I  had  more  need  of  a 
good,  long,  low  whistle  than  ever  I  had  in 
my  life  before.  But  I  didn't  whistle.  Even 
a  whistle  was  useless  here  to  express  the 
emotions  that  I  felt  at  Jack's  revelation.  I 
stood  and  stared  at  him  in  silence.  But 
I  didn't  see  him.  Other  visions  came  before 


He  sprang  up  to  his  feet  as  though  he  had  been  shot.     '  What  ! '  he  cried,  in  a  loud  voice. 

Page  78. 


I  EEVEAL  MY  SECEET. 


my  mind's  eye,  Horatio,  which  shut  out  Jack 
from  my  view.  I  was  again  in  that  delight 
ful  parlor;  again  Nora's  form  7as  near — 
her  laughing  face,  her  speak  *g  eyes,  her 
expression — now  genial  and  sympathetic, 
now  confused  and  embarrassed.  There  was 
her  round,  rosy,  smiling  face,  and  near  it 
the  sombre  face  of  Marion,  with  her  dark, 
penetrating  eyes.  And  this  winning  face, 
this  laughter-loving  Yenus — this  was  the 
one  about  whom  Jack  raved  as  his  Number 
Three.  This  was  the  one  whom  he  asked  to 
run  off  with  him.  She  !  She  run  off,  and 
with  him  !  The  idea  was  simple  insanity. 
She  had  written  him  a  letter — had  she  ? — 
and  it  was  a  scorcher,  according  to  his  own 
confession.  She  had  found  him  out,  and 
thrown  him  over.  Was  not  I  far  more  to 
her  than  a  fellow  like  Jack — I  who  had 
saved  her  from  a  hideous  death  ?  There 
could  be  no  question  about  that.  Was  not 
her  bright,  beaming  smile  of  farewell  still 
lingering  in  my  memory  ?  And  Jack  had 
the  audacity  to  think  of  her  yet ! 

"  Number  Three,"  said  I—"  well,  that's 
odd.  At  any  rate,  there's  one  of  your  trou 
bles  cut  off." 

"Cutoff?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  this,  that  Number  Three  won't 
bother  you  again." 

Jack  stood  looking  at  me  for  some  time 
in  silence,  with  a  dark  frown  on  his 
brow. 

"  Look  here,  Macrorie,"  said  he  ;  "  you 
force  me  to  gather  from  your  words  what 
I  am  very  unwilling  to  learn." 

"  What ! "  said  I.  "  Is  it  that  I  admire 
Miss  O'Halloran  ?  Is  that  it  ?  Come,  now ; 
speak  plainly,  Jack.  Don't  stand  in  the 
sulks.  What  is  it  that  you  want  to  say  ? 
I  confess  that  I'm  as  much  amazed  as  you 
are  at  finding  that  my  Lady  of  the  Ice  is 


the  same  as  your  'Number  Three.'  But 
such  is  the  case ;  and  now  what  are  you 
going  to  do  about  it  ?  " 

"  First  of  all,"  said  Jack,  coldly,  "  I  want 
to  know  what  you  are  proposing  to  do 
about  it." 

"  I  ?  "  said  I.  "  Why,  my  intention  is, 
if  possible,  to  try  to  win  from  Miss  O'Hal 
loran  a  return  of  that  feeling  which  I  enter 
tain  toward  her." 

"  So  that's  your  little  game — is  it  ? "  said 
Jack,  savagely. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  quietly ;  "  that's  exactly 
my  little  game.  And  may  I  ask  what  objec 
tion  you  have  to  it,  or  on  what  possible 
right  you  can  ground  any  conceivable  objec 
tion?" 

"  Right  ?  "  said  Jack—"  every  right  that 
a  man  of  honor  should  respect." 

"  Right  ?  "  cried  I.     "  Right  ?  " 

"  Yes,  right.  You  know  very  well  that 
she's  mine." 

"  Yours !  Yours !  "  I  cried.  "  Yours ! 
You  call  her  '  Number  Three.'  That  very 
name  of  itself  is  enough  to  shut  your 
mouth  forever.  What !  Do  you  come 
seriously  to  claim  any  rights  over  a  girl, 
when  by  your  own  confession  there  are  no 
less  than  two  others  to  whom  you  have 
offered  yourself?  Do  you  mean  to  look 
me  in  the  face,  after  what  you  yourself 
have  told  me,  and  say  that  you  consider 
that  you  have  any  claims  on  Miss  O'Hallo 
ran  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do!"  cried  Jack.  UI  do,  by 
Jove !  Look  here,  Macrorie.  I've  given 
you  my  confidence.  I've  told  you  all  about 
my  affair  with  her.  You  know  that  only  a 
day  or  two  ago  I  was  expecting  her  to  elope 
with  me — " 

"  Yes,  and  hoping  that  she  wouldn't,"  I 
interrupted. 

"  I  was  not.  I  was  angry  when  she  re 
fused,  and  I've  felt  hard  about  it  ever  since. 


80 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


But  she's  mine  all  the  same,  and  you  know 
it." 

"  Yours  ?  And  so  is  Miss  Phillips  yours," 
I  cried,  "  and  so  is  Mrs.  Finnimore  ;  and  I 
swear  I  believe  that,  if  I  were  to  be  sweet . 
on  Louie,  you'd  consider  yourself  injured. 
Hang  it,  man!  What  are  you  up  to? 
What  do  you  mean  ?  At  this  rate,  you'll 
claim  every  woman  in  Quebec.  Where  do 
you  intend  to  draw  the  line  ?  Would  you 
be  content  if  I  were  sweet  on  Miss  Phil 
lips  ?  Wouldn't  you  be  jealous  if  I  were 
to  visit  the  widow  ?  And  what  would  you 
say  if  I  were  seized  with  a  consuming  pas 
sion  for  Louie  ?  Come,  Jack — don't  row ; 
don't  be  quite  insane.  Sit  down  again,  and 
take  another  pipe,  and  let's  drop  the  subject." 

"I  won't  drop  the  subject,"  growled 
Jack.  "You  needn't  try  to  argue  your 
self  out  of  it.  You  know  very  well  that  I 
got  her  first." 

"  Why,  man,  at  this  rate,  you  might  get 
every  woman  in  America.  You  seem  to 
think  that  this  is  Utah." 

"  Come,  no  humbug,  Macrorie.  You 
know  very  well  what  I  am  to  that  girl." 

"  You  I  you  !  "  I  cried.  "  Why,  you  have 
told  me  already  that  she  has  found  you  out. 
Hang  it,  man !  if  it  comes  to  that,  what  are 
you  in  her  eyes  compared  with  me  ?  You've 
been  steadily  humbugging  her  ever  since 
you  first  knew  her,  and  she's  found  it  out. 
But  I  come  to  her  as  the  companion  of  the 
darkest  hour  of  her  life,  as  the  one  who 
saved  her  from  death.  You — good  Lord  ! 
— do  you  pretend  to  put  yourself  in  com 
parison  with  me  ?  You,  with  your  other 
affairs,  and  your  conscious  falsity  to  her, 
with  me !  Why,  but  for  me,  she  would  by 
this  time  be  drifting  down  the  river,  and 
lying  stark  and  dead  on  the  beach  of  Anti- 
costi.  That  is  what  I  have  done  for  her. 
And  what  have  you  done  ?  I  might  have 
laughed  over  the  joke  of  it  before  I  knew 


her  ;  but  now,  since  I  know  her,  and  love 
her,  when  you  force  me  to  say  what  you 
have  done,  I  declare  to  you  that  you  have 
wronged  her,  and  cheated  her,  and  hum 
bugged  her,  and  she  knows  it,  and  you 
know  it,  and  I  know  it.  These  things  may 
be  all  very  well  for  a  lark  ;  but,  when  you 
pretend  to  make  a  serious  matter  of  them, 
they  look  ugly.  Confound  it !  have  you  lost 
your  senses  ? " 

"  You'll  see  whether  I've  lost  my  senses 
or  not,"  said  Jack,  fiercely. 

"You've  got  trouble  enough  on  your 
shoulders,  Jack,"  said  I.  "  Don't  get  into 
any  more.  You  actually  have  the  face  to 
claim  no  less  than  three  women.  Yes,  four. 
I  must  count  Louie,  also.  If  this  question 
were  about  Louie,  wouldn't  you  be  just  as 
fierce?" 

Jack  did  not  answer. 

"  Wouldn't  you  ?  Wouldn't  you  say  that 
I  had  violated  your  confidence  ?  Wouldn't 
you  declare  that  it  was  a  wrong  to  yourself, 
and  a  bitter  injury  ?  If  I  had  saved  Louie's 
life,  and  then  suddenly  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  wouldn't  you  have  warned  me  off  in 
the  same  way?  You  know  you  would. 
But  will  you  listen  to  reason  ?  You  can't 
have  them  all.  You  must  choose  one  of 
them.  Take  Miss  Phillips,  and  be  true  to 
your  first  vow.  Take  the  widow,  and  be 
rich.  Take  Louie,  and  be  happy.  There 
you  have  it.  There  are  three  for  you.  As 
for  Miss  O'Halloran,  she  has  passed  away 
from  you  forever.  I  have  snatched  her  from 
death,  and  she  is  mine  forever." 

"  She  shall  never  be  yours !  "  cried  Jack, 
furiously. 

"  She  shall  be  mine  !  "  cried  I,  in  wrath 
ful  tones. 

"Never!  never!"  cried  Jack.  "She's 
mine,  and  she  shall  be  mine." 

"  Damn  it,  man !  are  you  crazy  ?  How 
many  wives  do  you  propose  to  have  ?  " 


A  FRIEND  BECOMES  AN  ENEMY. 


81 


"  She  shall  be  mine ! "  cried  Jack.  "  She, 
and  no  other.  I  give  up  all  others.  They 
may  all  go  and  be  hanged.  She,  and  she 
alone,  shall  be  mine." 

Saying  this,  he  strode  toward  the  door, 
opened  it,  passed  through,  and  banged  it 
behind  him.  I  heard  his  heavy  footsteps 
as  he  went  off,  and  I  stood  glaring  after 
him,  all  my  soul  on  fire  with  indignation. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  FRIEND  BECOMES  AN  ENEMY. — MEDITATIONS 
ON  THE  ANCIENT  AND  VENERABLE  FABLE  OF 
THE  DOG  IN  THE  MANGER. — THE  CORRUP 
TION  OF  THE  HUMAN  HEART. — CONSIDERA 
TION  OF  THE  WHOLE  SITUATION. ATTEMPTS 

TO   COUNTERMINE  JACK,  AND  FINAL  RESOLVE. 

So  Jack  left,  and  so  I  stood  staring  after 
him  in  furious  indignation. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  I  exclaimed,  addressing  my 
own  honorable  self,  "  are  you  going  to  stand 
that  sort  of  thing,  Macrorie  ?  And  at  your 
time  of  life,  my  boy !  You,  twenty-two 
years  of  age,  six  feet  high,  and  with  your 
knowledge  of  the  world !  You're  not  alto 
gether  an  ass,  are  you  ?  I  think  I  can  de 
pend  on  you,  my  boy.  You'll  stand  up  for 
your  rights.  She's  yours,  old  chap.  Cling 
to  her.  Remember  your  ancestors.  You'll 
get  her,  and  if  Jack  chooses  to  make  a  fool 
of  himself,  let  him!" 

After  this  expression  of  opinion,  I  re 
placed  my  last  pipe  and  tumbler,  and  re 
sumed  my  seat.  Over  my  head  the  clouds 
rolled;  through  my  brain  penetrated  the 
gentle  influence,  bringing  tranquillity  and 
peace ;  bringing  also  wisdom,  and  the 
power  of  planning  and  of  resolving. 

My  reflections  made  me  feel  that  Nora 
must  be  mine.  She  seemed  dearer  than  all 
the  world,  and  all  that.  Hadn't  I  saved  her 


life  ?  I  had.  Then  that  life  was  mine.  No 
one  else  had  such  a  claim  on  her  as  I  had. 
Jack's  absurd  pretence  at  a  claim  was  all 
confounded  stuff  and  nonsense.  I  consid 
ered  his  attitude  on  this  occasion  a  piece 
of  the  worst  kind  of  selfishness,  not  to 
speak  of  its  utter  madness.  The  dog  in 
the  manger  was  nothing  to  this.  I  was 
not  the  man  to  let  myself  be  pushed  aside 
in  this  way.  He  would  not  have  thought 
of  her  if  I  had  not  put  in  my  claim.  Be 
fore  that  she  was  no  more  to  him  than 
"  Number  Three,"  one  of  his  tormentors 
from  whom  he  longed  to  get  free,  one  who 
annoyed  him  with  letters.  All  this  he  had 
confessed  to  me.  Yet  the  moment  that  I 
told  him  my  story,  and  informed  him  of  her 
identity  with  the  Lady  of  the  Ice,  at  once 
he  changed  about,  and  declared  he  would 
never  give  her  up. 

All  of  which  reminded  me  forcibly  of  the 
language  of  a  venerable  female  friend,  who 
used  to  hold  up  her  hands  and  exclaim, 
"  Oh,  dear  !  Oh,  my  !  Oh,  the  corruption 
of  the  human  heart  !  Oh,  dear !  Oh, 
my!" 

On  the  other  hand,  I  was  not  so  blind 
but  that  I  could  see  that  Jack's  impudent 
and  ridiculous  claim  to  Miss  O'Halloranhad 
made  her  appear  in  a  somewhat  different 
light  from  that  in  which  I  had  hitherto 
viewed  her.  Until  that  time  I  had  no 
well-defined  notions.  My  mind  vibrated 
between  her  image  and  that  of  Marion. 
But  now  Miss  O'Halloran  suddenly  became 
all  in  all  to  me.  Jack's  claim  on  her 
made  me  fully  conscious  of  my  superior 
claim,  and  this  I  determined  to  enforce 
at  all  hazards.  And  thus  the  one  end,  aim, 
and  purpose  of  my  life,  suddenly  and  almost 
instantaneously  darted  up  within  me,  and 
referred  to  making  Miss  O'Halloran  my 
own. 

But,  if  this  was  to  be  done,  I  saw  that  it 


82 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


must  be  done  quickly.  Jack's  blood  was 
up.  He  had  declared  that  he  would  win 
her,  and  had  departed  with  this  declara 
tion.  I  knew  him  well  enough  to  feel  sure 
that  his  action  would  be  prompt.  He  was 
capable  of  any  act  of  folly  or  of  despera 
tion.  If  I  could  hope  to  contend  success 
fully  against  him,  it  would  be  necessary  for 
me  to  be  as  foolish  and  as  desperate.  I 
must  go  in  for  a  headlong  game.  It  was  to 
be  a  regular  steeple-chase.  No  dilly-dally 
ing — no  shuffling — no  coquetting — no  woo 
ing  —  but  bold,  instant,  and  immediate 
action.  And  why  not  ?  Our  intercourse 
on  the  ice  had  been  less  than  a  day,  but 
those  hours  were  protracted  singly  to  the 
duration  of  years,  and  we  had  been  forced 
into  intimacy  by  the  peril  of  our  path  and 
the  horror  of  our  way.  We  were  beaten 
together  by  the  tempest,  rocked  by  the  ice, 
we  sank  together  in  the  wave,  together  we 
crossed  the  tottering  ice-ridge — together 
we  evaded  the  fall  of  avalanches.  Again 
and  again,  on  that  one  unparalleled  journey, 
she  had  received  her  life  from  me.  Was  all 
this  to  count  for  nothing  ?  This  !  Why, 
this  was  every  thing.  What  could  her  rec 
ollections  of  Jack  be  when  compared  to  her 
recollections  of  me  ?  For  one  who  came 
to  her  as  I  had  come  there  need  be  no  delay. 
Enough  to  tell  her  what  my  feelings  were 
— to  urge  and  implore  her  for  immediate 
acceptance  of  my  vows. 

This  was  my  fixed  resolve ;  but  when, 
where,  and  how  ?  I  could  not  go  to  the 
house  again  for  two  days,  and,  during  two 
days,  Jack  would  have  the  advantage.  No 
doubt  he  would  at  once  reply  to  that  last 
letter  of  hers.  No  doubt  he  would  fling 
away  every  thought  but  the  one  thought  of 
her.  No  doubt  he  would  write  her  a  letter 
full  of  protestations  of  love,  and  implore 
her,  for  the  last  time,  to  fly  with  him.  He 
had  done  so  before.  In  his  new  mood  he 


might  do  it  again.  The  thought  made  my 
blood  run  cold.  The  more  I  dwelt  upon  it, 
the  more  confident  I  was  that  Jack  would 
do  this. 

And  what  could  I  do  ? 

One  of  two  ways  could  be  adopted  : 

First,  I  might  go  there  on  the  following 
day,  and  call  on  Miss  O'Halloran.  Her 
father  would  be  away. 

And,  secondty,  I  might  write  her  a  letter. 

But  neither  of  these  plans  seemed  satis 
factory.  In  the  first  place,  I  did  not  feel 
altogether  prepared  to  go  and  call  on  her 
for  such  a  purpose.  It  came  on  a  fellow 
too  suddenly.  In  the  second  place,  a  letter 
did  not  seem  to  be  the  proper  style  of  thing. 
The  fact  is,  when  a  fellow  seeks  a  lady,  he 
ought  to  do  it  face  to  face,  if  possible. 

The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more 
strongly  I  felt  the  absolute  necessity  of 
waiting  for  those  two  days  which  should 
intervene  before  I  could  go.  Then  I  might 
go  on  a  regular  invitation.  Then  I  might 
have  an  additional  opportunity  of  finding 
out  her  sentiments  toward  me.  In  fact,  I 
concluded  to  wait. 

And  so  I  waited. 

The  two  days  passed  slowly.  Jack,  of 
course,  kept  aloof,  and  I  saw  nothing  and 
heard  nothing  of  him.  Where  he  was,  or 
what  he  was  doing,  I  could  not  tell.  I 
could  only  conjecture.  And  all  my  con 
jectures  led  to  the  fixed  conviction  that 
Jack  in  his  desperation  had  written  to  her, 
and  proposed  flight. 

This  conviction  became  intensified  more 
and  more  every  hour.  I  grew  more  and 
more  impatient.  My  mood  became  one  of 
constant  and  incessant  fidgetiness,  nervous 
ness,  and  harrowing  suspense. 


TKEMENDOUS  EXCITEMENT. 


83 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

TREMENDOUS  EXCITEMENT.  —  THE  HOUR  AP 
PROACHES,  AND  WITH  IT  THE  MAN. — THE 
LADY  OF  THE  ICE. — A  TUMULTUOUS  MEET 
ING. OUTPOURING  OP  TENDER  EMOTIONS. — 

AGITATION  OP  THE  LADY. — A  SUDDEN  IN 
TERRUPTION. — AN  INJURED  MAN,  AN  AWFUL, 
FEARFUL,  DIREFUL,  AND  UTTERLY-CRUSHING 
REVELATION. — WHO  IS  THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE  ? 

AT  last  the  appointed  evening  came,  and 
I  prepared  to  go  to  O'Halloran's.  By  this 
time  I  was  roused  up  to  a  pitch  of  excite 
ment  such  as  I  had  never  before  expe 
rienced.  For  two  days  and  two  nights  I 
had  been  brooding  and  dreaming  over  this 
one  subject,  imagining  all  sorts  of  things, 
making  all  sorts  of  conjectures  about 
Jack's  letter  and  Miss  O'Halloran's  recep 
tion  of  it.  Was  it  possible  that  she  could 
share  his  madness  and  his  desperation? 
That  I  could  not  tell.  Women  in  love,  and 
men  in  love  also,  will  always  act  madly  and 
desperately.  But  was  she  in  love  ?  Could 
that  serene,  laughing,  merry,  happy  face 
belong  to  one  who  was  capable  of  a  sudden 
act  of  desperation — of  one  who  would  flit 
with  Jack,  and  fling  her  father  into  sor 
row  at  a  moment's  warning  ?  How  could 
that  be  ?  So  by  turns  my  hopes  and  my 
fears  rose  in  the  ascendant,  and  the  end  of 
it  all  was  that,  by  the  time  I  reached 
O'Halloran's  door,  Jack  himself,  in  his 
most  frantic  mood,  could  not  have  been 
more  perfectly  given  up  to  any  headlong 
piece  of  rashness,  folly,  and  desperation, 
than  I  was. 

I  knocked  at  the  door. 

I  was  admitted,  and  shown  into  the 
room.  O'Halloran,  I  was  told,  had  just 
arrived,  and  was  dressing.  Would  I  be 
kind  enough  to  wait  ? 


I  sat  down. 

In  about  two  minutes  I  heard  a  light 
footstep. 

My  heart  beat  fast. 

Some  one  was  coming. 

Who? 

The  light  footstep  and  the  rustling  dress 
showed  that  it  was  a  lady. 

But  who  ? 

Was  it  the  servant  ? 

Or  Marion  ? 

Was  it  Nora  ? 

My  heart  actually  stood  still  as  these  pos 
sibilities  suggested  themselves,  and  I  sat 
glaring  at  the  door. 

The  figure  entered. 

My  heart  gave  a  wild  bound ;  the  blood 
surged  to  my  face,  and  boiled  in  my  veins. 
It  was  Nora's  self !  It  was— it  was— my 
Nora ! 

I  rose  as  she  entered.  She  greeted  me 
with  her  usual  beaming  and  fascinating 
smile.  I  took  her  hand,  and  did  not  say  a 
word  for  a  few  moments.  The  hour  had 
come.  I  was  struggling  to  speak.  Here 
she  was.  This  was  the  opportunity  for 
which  I  had  longed.  But  what  should  I 
say? 

"  I've  been  longing  to  see  you  alone,"  I 
cried,  at  last.  "  Have  you  forgotten  that 
day  on  the  ice  ?  Have  you  forgotten  the 
eternal  hours  of  that  day?  Do  you  re 
member  how  you  clung  to  me  as  we  crossed 
the  ice-ridge,  while  the  waves  were  surging 
behind  us,  and  the  great  ice-heaps  came 
crashing  down  ?  Do  you  remember  how  I 
raised  you  up  as  you  fell  lifeless,  and  car 
ried  your  senseless  form,  springing  over 
the  open  channel,  and  dashing  up  the  cliff? 
And  I  lost  you,  and  now  I've  found  you 
again ! " 

I  stopped,  and  looked  at  her  earnestly,  to 
see  how  she  received  my  words. 
And  here  let  me  confess  that  such  a 


84 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


mode  of  address  was  not  generous  or  chiv 
alrous,  nor  was  it  at  all  in  good  taste. 
True  chivalry  would  have  scorned  to  re 
mind  another  of  an  obligation  conferred; 
but  then,  you  see,  this  was  a  very  peculiar 
case.  In  love,  my  boy,  all  the  ordinary 
rules  of  life,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  you 
know,  must  give  way  to  the  exigencies  of 
the  hour.  And  this  was  a  moment  of  dire 
exigency,  in  which  much  had  to  be  said  in 
the  most  energetic  -manner.  Besides,  I 
spoke  what  I  thought,  and  that's  my  chief 
excuse  after  all. 

I  stopped  and  looked  at  her ;  but,  as  I 
looked,  I  did  not  feel  reason  to  be  satisfied 
with  my  success  so  far.  She  retreated  a 
step,  and  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand.  She 
looked  at  me  with  a  face  of  perplexity  and 
despair.  Seeing  this,  I  let  go  her  hand. 
She  clasped  both  hands  together,  and 
looked  at  me  in  silence. 

"  What ! "  said  I,  tragically,  yet  sincerely 
—for  a  great,  dark,  bitter  disappointment 
rose  up  within  me—"  what !  Is  all  this 
nothing  ?  Has  it  all  been  nothing  to  you  ? 
Alas  !  what  else  could  I  expect  ?  I  might 
have  known  it  all.  No.  You  never  thought 
of  me.  You  could  not.  I  was  less  than  the 
driver  to  you.  If  you  had  thought  of  me, 
you  never  would  have  run  away  and  left 
me  when  I  was  wandering  over  the  coun 
try  thinking  only  of  you,  with  all  my  heart 
yearning  after  you,  and  seeking  only  for 
some  help  to  send  you.  And  yet  there  was 
that  in  our  journey  which  might  at  least 
have  elicited  from  you  some  word  of  sym 
pathy." 

There  again,  my  friend,  I  was  ungener- 
ous,  unchivalrous,  and  all  that.  Bad 
enough  is  it  to  remind  one  of  favors 
done ;  but,  on  the  heels  of  that,  to  go  de 
liberately  to  work  and  reproach  one  for 
want  of  gratitude,  is  ten  times  worse.  By 
Jove !  And  for  this,  as  for  the  other,  my 


only    excuse    is    the    exigencies    of    the 
hour. 

Meanwhile  she  stood  with  an  increasing 
perplexity  and  grief  in  every  look  and  ges 
ture.  She  cast  at  me  a  look  of  utter  de 
spair.  She  wrung  her  hands  ;  and  at  last, 
as  I  ended,  she  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Oh,  dear !  Oh,  what  a  dreadful,  dreadful 
thing  !  Oh,  dear  !  " 

Her  evident  distress  touched  me  to  the 
heart.  Evidently,  she  was  compromised 
with  Jack,  and  was  embarrassed  by  this. 

Follow  your  own  heart,"  said  I,  mourn 
fully.  "But  say — can  you  not  give  me 
some  hope?  Can  you  not  give  me  one 
kind  word  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  she  cried  ;  "  it's  dreadful. 
I  don't  know  what  to  do.  It's  all  a  mis- 
take.  Oh,  I  wish  you  could  only  know  all ! 
And  me ! !  What  in  the  world  can  I 
do!" 

"  Oh,  Miss  O'Halloran ! "  said  I ;  "I  love 
yOU — I  adore— you —  and — oh,  Miss  O'Hal 
loran  !— I— " 

"  Miss  O'Halloran  !  "  she  cried,  starting 
back  as  I  advanced  once  more,  and  tried  to 
take  her  hand. 

"  Nora,  then,"  said  I.  "  Dearest,  sweet 
est  !  You  cannot  be  indifferent.  Oh, 
Nora  !  "  and  I  grasped  her  hand. 

But  at  that  moment  I  was  startled  by  a 
heavy  footstep   at  the  door.      I  dropped 
Nora's  hand,  which  she  herself  snatched 
away,  and  turned. 
IT  WAS  O'HALLORAN  ! ! ! ! ! 
He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  us, 
and  then  he  burst  out  into  a  roar  of  laugh 
ter. 

"  Macrorie  ! "  he  cried—"  Macrorie !  May 
the  divil  saize  me  if  I  don't  beleeve  that 
ye're  indulgin'  in  gallanthries." 

Now,  at  that  moment,  his  laughter  sound 
ed  harsh  and  ominous ;  but  I  had  done  no 


RECOVERY  FROM  THE  LAST  GKEAT  SHOCK. 


85 


wrong,  and  so,  in  conscious  innocence,  I 
said: 

"  Mr.  O'Halloran,  you  are  right  in  your 
conjecture ;  but  I  assure  you  that  it  was  no 
mere  gallantry;  for,  sir,  I  have  a  strong 
affection  for  Miss  O'Halloran,  and  have  just 
asked  her  for  her  hand." 

"Miss  O'Halloran!"  cried  he.  "Miss 
O'Halloran  !  Sure,  why  didn't  ye  ask  her- 
silf,  thin,  like  a  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  !  "  cried  Nora,  taking  O'Hallo- 
ran's  arm,  and  turning  her  beautiful,  plead 
ing  face  up  to  his — "  oh,  dear !  It's  all  a 
dreadful,  dreadful  mistake.  He  doesn't 
know  who  I  am.  He  thinks  that  J  am 
Miss  O'Halloran." 

"  You  !  "  I  cried.  "  You  !  Why,  are  you 
not?  Of  course,  you  are.  Who  else  are 
you?" 

"Oh,  tell  him,  tell  him!"  cried  Nora. 
"  It's  so  dreadful !  Such  a  horrid,  horrid 
mistake  to  make !  " 

A  bright  light  flashed  all  over  O'Hallo 
ran' s  face.  He  looked  at  me,  and  then  at 
Nora ;  and  then  there  came  forth  a  peal  of 
laughter  which  would  have  done  honor  to 
any  of  the  gods  at  the  Olympian  table. 
This  time  the  laughter  was  pure,  and  fresh, 
and  joyous,  and  free. 

"  Miss  O'Halloran  !  "  he  cried — "  ha,  ha, 
ha,  ha,  ha !  Miss  O'Halloran  !  ha,  ha,  ha, 
ha,  ha!  Miss  O'Halloran!  Oh,  be  the 
powers,  it's  me  that'll  nivir  get  over  that 
same  !  Miss  O'Halloran  !  An'  givin'  wee 
to  sintimint — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  an'  askin' 
for  riciproceetee  av'  tindir  attachmint — ha, 
ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  What  in  the  woide  wurruld 
ivir  injuiced  ye  to  think  that  me  own  little 
Nora  was  Miss  O'Halloran  ?  " 

"Miss  O'Halloran?  Why,"  said  I, 
"  what  else  could  I  suppose  ?  I  recollect 
now,  when  you  introduced  me  the  other 
night,  you  didn't  mention  her  name ;  and, 
if  she  isn't  Miss  O'Halloran,  who  is  she  ? 


Let  me  know  now,  at  least.  But  my  senti 
ments  remain  the  same,"  I  concluded, 
"  whatever  name  she  has." 

"  The  divull  they  do ! "  said  O'Halloran, 
with  a  grin.  "Well,  thin,  the  quicker  ye 
cheenge  yer  sintimints,  the  betther.  Me 
own  Nora — she's  not  Miss  O'Halloran — an' 
lucky  for  me — she's  somethin'  betther — 
she's— MRS.  O'HALLORAN  II!" 

Let  the  curtain  fall.  There,  reader,  you 
have  it.  We  won't  attempt  to  enlarge — 
will  we  ?  We'll  omit  the  exploding  thun 
der-bolt — won't  we  ?  I  will  quietly  put  an 
end  to  this  chapter,  so  as  to  give  you  leisure 
to  meditate  over  the  woes  of  Macrorie. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

RECOVERY  FROM  THE  LAST  GREAT  SHOCK. — 
GENIALITY  OF  MINE  HOST.  —  OFF  AGAIN 
AMONG  ANTIQUITIES.  —  THE  FENIANS.  —  A 
STARTLING  REVELATION  BY  ONE  OF  THE 
INNER  CIRCLE.  —  POLITICS,  POETRY,  AND 
PATHOS. — FAR-REACHING  PLANS  AND  DEEP- 
SEATED  PURPOSES. 

I  WAS  to  dine  with  O'Halloran,  and, 
though  for  some  time  I  was  overwhelmed, 
yet  I  rallied  rapidly,  and  soon  recovered. 
O'Halloran  himself  was  full  of  fun.  The 
event  had  apparently  only  excited  his  laugh 
ter,  and  appeared  to  him  as  affording  mate 
rial  for  nothing  else  than  endless  chaff  and 
nonsense. 

As  for  Nora,  she  had  been  so  agitated 
that  she  did  not  come  to  dinner,  nor  did 
Marion  make  her  appearance.  This  was 
the  only  thing  that  gave  me  discomfort. 
O'Halloran  seemed  to  understand  how  natu 
ral  my  mistake  was,  and  I  supposed  that 
he  made  every  allowance,  and  all  that. 

We  sat  at  table  for  a  long  time.  O'Hal 
loran  discoursed  on  his  usual  variety  of  sub- 


86 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


jects.  Something  occurred  which  suggest 
ed  the  Fenians,  whereupon  he  suddenly 
stopped ;  and,  looking  earnestly  at  me,  he 
said: 

"  Ye  know  I'm  a  Fenian  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  I  make  no  saycrit  of  it,"  said  he.  "  As 
a  British  officer,  you're  my  mortal  inimee 
in  my  capaceetee  as  a  Fenian ;  but  at  this 
table,  and  in  this  house,  we're  nayther  one 
thing  nor  the  other.  You're  only  Macrorie, 
and  I'm  only  O'Halloran.  Still  I  don't  mind 
talking  of  the  subject  of  Fenianism;  it's 
an  important  one,  and  will  one  day  take  up 
a  great  speece  in  histhory.  I  don't  intind 
to  indulge  in  any  offinsive  objurgeetions 
ageenst  the  Saxon,  nor  will  I  mintion  the 
wrongs  of  Oireland.  I'll  only  enloighten 
you  as  to  the  purpose,  the  maining,  and  the 
attichood  of  the  Fenian  ordher." 

With  these  words  he  rose  from  the  table, 
and  chatted  on  general  subjects,  while  the 
servants  brought  in  the  spoons,  glasses, 
tumblers,  and  several  other  things.  Be 
neath  the  genial  influence  of  these,  O'Hal- 
loran  soon  grew  eloquent,  and  resumed  his 
remarks  on  the  Fenians. 

"  The  Fenian  ordher,"  he  began,  "  has 
two  eems.  One  is  abroad  ;  the  other  is  at 
home. 

"  The  first  is  that  which  is  kipt  before 
the  oyes  of  the  mimbers  of  the  outher  cir 
cles.  It  manes  the  libereetion  of  Oireland, 
and  perpitual  inmity  to  England.  This  pur 
pose  has  its  maneefesteetion  in  the  attacks 
which  have  alriddy  been  made  on  the  ini- 
my.  Two  inveesions  have  been  made  on 
Canada.  Innumerable  and  multeefeerious 
small  interproises  have  been  set  on  fut  in 
Oireland  and  in  England ;  and  these  things 
serve  the  purpose  of  keeping  before  the 
moinds  of  the  mimbers  the  prospict  of  some 
grand  attack  on  the  inimy,  and  of  foirin' 
their  ardhor. 


"  But  there  is  an  innermost  circle,  say- 
cludhid  from  the  vulgar  oi,  undher  the 
chootelar  prayiminence  of  min  of  janius,  in 
whose  moinds  there  is  a  very  different  eem. 
It  is  the  second  which  I  have  mintioned. 
It  is  diricthid  against  America. 

"  Thus— 

"In  the  American  raypublic  there  are 
foive  millions  of  Oirish  vothers.  Now,  if 
these  foive  millions  cud  only  be  unoited  in 
one  homojaneous  congreegeetion,  for  some 
one  prayiminent  objict,  they  cud  aisly  rule 
the  counthree,  an'  dirict  its  policee  intoire- 
ly,  at  home  and  abroad. 

"  This,  thin,  is  the  thrue  and  genuoine 
eem  of  the  shuparior  min  of  the  intayrior 
circles.  It  is  a  grand  an'  comprayhinsive 
schayme  to  consoleedeete  all  the  Oirish 
votes  into  one  overwhilming  mass  which 
can  conthrol  all  the  ilictions.  It  is  sweed 
by  a  few  min  of  praysoiding  moinds  and 
shupayrior  janius. 

"  And  hince  you  bayhowld  a  systim  rois- 
ing  within  the  boosom  of  the  American  ray- 
public,  which  will  soon  be  greather  thin  the 
raypublic  itself.  At  prisint,  though,  we  do 
not  number  much  over  a  million.  But  we 
are  incraysing.  We  have  hoighly-multi- 
feerious  raysourcis.  All  the  Mips  are  in 
our  pee.  These  are  our  spoys.  They  in- 
farrum  us  of  all  the  saycrit  doings  of  the 
American  payple.  They  bring  constint 
accisions  to  our  numbers.  They  meek  us 
sure  of  our  future. 

"  Oirishmin,"  he  continued,  "  will  nivir 
roise  iffikeeciouslee  in  Oireland.  They  can 
only  roise  in  Amirica.  Here,  in  this  coun- 
thry,  is  their  only  chance.  And  this  chance 
we  have  sayzed,  an',  begorra,  we'll  follow  it 
up  till  all  Amirica  is  domeeneetid  by  the 
Oirish  ilimint,  and  ruled  by  Oirish  votes. 
This  is  the  only  Oirish  raypublic  for  which 
we  eare." 

"  But  you've  been  divided  in  your  coun- 


EECOVEEY  FEOM  THE  LAST  GEEAT  SHOCK. 


sels,"  I  suggested.  "  Did'nt  this  interfere 
with  your  prospects  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  that  was  aU  our  diplom- 
eecee." 

"  And  were  you  never  really  divided  ?  " 

"  Nivir  for  a  momint.  These  were  only 
thricks  intindid  to  disave  and  schtoopeefy 
the  Amirican  and  English  governmints." 

"  So  your  true  aim  refers  to  America  ?  " 

"Yis.  And  we  intind  to  saycure  to 
Amirica  a  perpetual  succession  of  Oirish 
prisidints." 

"  When  will  you  be  able  to  begin  ?  At 
the  next  election  ?  " 

"  No — not  so  soon.  Not  for  two  or  three 
to  come.  By  the  third  eliction  though,  all 
the  Oirish  populeetion  will  be  riddyto  vote, 
and  thin  we'll  have  our  oun  Oirish  Prisi- 
dint.  And  afther  that,"  said  O'Halloran, 
in  an  oracular  tone,  and  pausing  to  quaff 
the  transparent  draught  —  "afther  that, 
Amirica  will  be  simplee  an  Oirish  rapublic. 
Then  we'll  cast  our  oys  across  the  say. 
We'll  cast  there  our  arrums.  We'll  sind 
there  our  flates  and  armies.  We'll  take 
vingince  out  of  the  Saxon  for  the  wrongs 
of  foive  cinturies.  We'll  adopt  Ould  Oire- 
land  into  the  fameelee  of  the  Steetes,  as  the 
youngest,  but  the  fairist  and  the  broightist 
of  thim  all.  We'll  throw  our  laygions 
across  the  Oirish  Channel  into  the  land  of 
the  Saxon,  and  bring  that  counthry  down 
to  its  proimayval  insignifeecance.  That," 
said  O'Halloran,  "  is  the  one  schtoopindous 
eem  of  the  Fenian  Ordher." 

O'Halloran  showed  deep  emotion.  Once 
more  he  quaffed  the  restoring  draught. 

"  Yis,  me  boy,"  he  said,  looking  tenderly 
at  me.  "  I'll  yit  return  to  the  owld  land. 
Perhaps  ye'll  visit  the  eeged  O'Halloran 
before  he  doise.  Oi'll  teek  up  me  risidince 
at  Dublin.  Oi'll  show  ye  Oireland — free — 
troiumphint,  shuprame  among  the  neetions. 
Oi'll  show  ye  our  noble  pisintry,  the  foinist 


in  the  wurruld.  Oi'll  take  ye  to  the  Eoton- 
do.  Oi'll  show  ye  the  Blarney-stone.  Oi'll 
show  ye  the  ruins  of  Tara,  where  me  oun 
ancisthors  once  reigned." 

At  this  his  emotion  overcame  him,  and 
he  was  once  more  obliged  to  seek  a  resto 
rative. 

After  this  he  volunteered  to  sing  a  song, 
and  trolled  off  the  following  to  a  lively, 
rollicking  air : 

"  '  Ye  choonful  Noine  ! 

Ye  nymphs  devoine, 
Shuprame  in  Jove's  dominions ! 

Assist  me  loyre, 

Whoile  oi  aspoire 
To  cilihreet  the  Fenians. 

"  '  Our  ordher  bowld 

All  onconthrowled 
Injued  with  power,  he  dad,  is 

To  pleece  in  arrums 

The  stalwart  farrums 
Of  half  a  million  Paddies. 

" '  To  Saxon  laws 

For  Oireland' s  cause 
Thim  same  did  hreak  allaygiance, 

An'  marched  away 

In  war's  array 
To  froighten  the  Canajians. 

'"We  soon  intind 

Our  wee  to  wind 
Across  the  woide  Atlantic, 

Besaige  the  ports, 

Blow  up  the  forts, 
An'  droive  the  Saxon  frantic. 

" '  An'  thin  in  loine, 

Our  hosts  will  join 
Beneath  the  Oirish  pinnint, 

Till  Duhlin  falls, 

An'  on  its  walls 
We  hang  the  lord-liftinnint. 

" '  The  Saxon  crew 

.  We'll  thin  purshoo 
Judiciously  and  calmly — 
On  Windsor's  plain 
We'll  hang  the  Quane 
An'  all  the  royal  family. 


88 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


" '  An'  thin-begob ! 

No  more  they'll  rob 
Ould  Oireland  of  her  taxes, 

An'  Earth  shall  rowl 

From  powl  to  powl 
More  aisy  on  its  axis.' " 

Now  all  the  time  O'Halloran  was  talk 
ing  and  singing,  I  had  scarcely  heard  a 
word  that  he  said.  Once  I  caught  the  gen 
eral  run  of  his  remarks,  and  said  a  few 
words  to  make  him  think  I  was  attending ; 
but  my  thoughts  soon  wandered  off,  and  I 
was  quite  unconscious  that  he  was  talking 
rank  treason.  How  do  I  know  so  much 
about  it  now,  it  may  be  asked.  To  this  I 
reply  that  after-circumstances  gave  me  full 
information  about  was  said  and  sung.  And 
of  this  the  above  will  give  a  general  idea. 

But  my  thoughts  were  on  far  other  sub 
jects  than  Fenianism.  It  was  the  Lady  of 
the  Ice  that  filled  my  heart  and  my  mind. 
Lost  and  found,  and  lost  again  !  With  me 
it  was  nothing  but — "  0  Nora  !  Nora  ! 
Wherefore  art  thou,  Nora  ?  " — and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know. 

Lost  and  found  !  Lost  and  found  !  A 
capital  title  for  a  sensation  novel,  but  a  bad 
thing,  ray  boy,  to  be  ringing  through  a  poor 
devil's  brain.  Now,  through  my  brain  there 
rang  that  identical  refrain,  and  nothing  else. 
And  all  my  thoughts  and  words  the  melan 
choly  burden  bore  of  never — never  more. 
How  could  I  enjoy  the  occasion  ?  What 
was  conviviality  to  me,  or  I  to  convivial 
ity  ?  O'Halloran's  words  were  unheeded 
and  unheard.  While  Nora  was  near,  he 
used  to  seem  a  brilliant  being,  but  Nora 
was  gone ! 

And  why  had  she  gone  ?  Why  had  she 
been  so  cut  up  ?  I  had  said  but  little,  and 
my  mistake  had  been  hushed  up  by  O'Hal 
loran's  laughter.  Why  had  she  retired? 
And  why,  when  I  spoke  to  her  of  my  love, 
had  she  showed  such  extraordinarv  agita 


tion?  Was  it — oh,  was  it  that  she  too 
loved,  not  wisely  but  too  well  ?  0  Nora ! 
Oh,  my  Lady  of  the  Ice  !  Well  did  you  say 
it  was  a  dreadful  mistake !  Oh,  mistake — 
irreparable,  despairing  !  And  could  I  never 
see  her  sweet  face  again  ? 

By  this,  which  is  a  pretty  fair  specimen 
of  my  thoughts,  it  will  be  plainly  seen  that 
I  was  in  a  very  agitated  frame  of  mind, 
and  still  clung  as  fondly  and  as  frantically 
as  ever  to  my  one  idea  of  the  Lady  of  the 
Ice. 

One  thing  came  amid  my  thoughts  like 
a  flash  of  light  into  darkness,  and  that  was 
that  Jack,  at  least,  was  not  crossing  my 
path,  nor  was  he  a  dog  in  my  manger ;  Miss 
O'Halloran  might  be  his,  but  she  was  noth 
ing  to  me.  Who  Miss  O'Halloran  was,  I 
now  fully  understood.  It  was  Marion- 
Marion  with  the  sombre,  sad  face,  and  the 
piercing,  lustrous  eyes. 

Well,  be  she  who  she  might,  she  was  no 
longer  standing  between  Jack  and  me.  I 
could  regain  my  lost  friend  at  any  rate.  I 
could  explain  every  thing  to  him.  I  could 
easily  anticipate  the  wild  shrieks  of  laugh 
ter  with  which  he  would  greet  my  mistake, 
but  that  mattered  not.  I  was  determined 
to  hunt  him  up.  All  my  late  bitter  feeling 
against  him  vanished,  and  I  began  to  feel 
a  kind  of  longing  for  his  great  broad  brow, 
his  boyish  carelessness,  his  never-ending 
blunders.  So  at  an  early  hour  I  rose,  and 
informed  O'Halloran  that  I  had  an  engage 
ment  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  would  have  to 
start. 

"  It's  sorry  I  am,"  said  he,  "but  I  won't 
deteen  ye." 


A  FEW  PASTING  WOEDS  WITH  O'HALLOBAN. 


89 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

A  FEW  PARTING  WORDS  WITH  O'HALLORAN. — 
HIS  TOUCHING  PARENTAL  TENDERNESS,  HIGH 
CHIVALRIC  SENTIMENT,  AND  LOFTY  SENSE 
OF  HONOR. — PISTOLS  FOR  TWO. — PLEASANT 
AND  HARMONIOUS  ARRANGEMENT.  —  "  ME 

BOY,  YE'RE  AN  HONOR  TO  YER  SEX  ! " 

"  IT'S  sorry  I  am,"  said  O'Halloran,  "  but 
I  won't  deteen  ye,  for  I  always  rispict  an 
engeegemint." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  me  with  a  be 
nevolent  smile.  I  had  risen  from  my  chair, 
and  was  standing  before  him. 

"  Sit  down  a  momint,"  said  he.  "  There's 
a  subjict  I  wish  to  mintion,  the  considheree- 
tion  of  which  I've  postponed  till  now." 

I  resumed  my  seat  in  some  surprise. 

"  Me  boy,"  said  he,  in  a  tender  and  pater 
nal  voice,  "  it's  now  toime  for  me  to  speak 
to  ye  about  the  ayvint  of  which  I  was  a 
casual  oi-witniss.  I  refer  to  your  addhrissis 
to  me  woife.  Don't  intherrupt  me.  I  com- 
prayhind  the  whole  matter.  The  leedies 
are  all  fond  of  ye.  So  they  are  of  me. 
Ye're  a  divvil  of  a  fellow  with  them — an' 
so  am  I.  "We  comprayhind  one  another. 
You  see  we  must  have  a  mayting." 

"  A  meeting ! " 

"  Yis — of  coorse.  A  jool.  There's  noth 
ing  else  to  be  done." 

"  You  understand,"  said  I,  "  of  course, 
the  nature  of  my  awkward  mistake,  and  the 
cause  of  it." 

"Don't  mintion  it.  Me  ondherstand  ? 
Of  coorse.  Am  I  an  owl  ?  Be  dad,  I 
nivir  laughed  so  much  these  tin  years. 
Ondherstand!  Every  bit  of  it.  But  we 
won't  have  any  expleeneetions  about  that. 
What  concerns  us  is  the  code  of  honor, 
and  the  jewty  of  gintlemin.  A  rigid  sinse 
of  honor,  and  a  shuprame  reygard  for  the 


sancteties  of  loife,  requoire  that  any  voio- 
leetion,  howivir  onintintional,  be  submitted 
and  subjicted  to  the  only  tribunal  of  chiv 
alry — the  eencient  and  maydoayval  orjil  of 
the  jool." 

I  confess  I  was  affected,  and  deeply,  by 
the  lofty  attitude  which  O'Halloran  assumed. 
He  hadn't  the  slightest  hard  feeling  toward 
me.  He  wasn't  in  the  smallest  degree  jeal 
ous.  He  was  simply  a  calm  adherent  to  a 
lofty  and  chivalrous  code.  His  honor  had 
been  touched  ignorantly,  no  doubt — yet 
still  it  had  been  touched,  and  he  saw  no 
other  course  to  follow  than  the  one  laid 
down  by  chivalry. 

"  My  friend,"  said  I,  enthusiastically,  "  I 
appreciate  your  delicacy,  and  your  lofty  sen 
timent.  This  is  true  chivalry.  You  sur 
pass  yourself.  You  are  sublime !  " 

"  I  know  I  am,"  said  O'Halloran,  naively. 

A  tear  trembled  in  his  eye.  He  did  not 
seek  to  conceal  his  generous  emotion.  That 
tear  rolled  over  and  dropped  into  his  tum 
bler,  and  hallowed  the  draught  therein. 

"  So  then,"  said  I,  "  we  are  to  have  a 
meeting — but  where,  and  when  ?  " 

"  Whinivir  it  shoots  you,  and  wherivir. 
I'm  afraid  it'll  take  you  out  of  your  wee. 
We'll  have  to  go  off  about  twinty  moiles. 
There's  a  moighty  convaynient  place  there, 
I'm  sorry  it's  not  nayrer,  but  it  can't  be 
helped.  I've  had  three  or  fower  maytings 
there  mesilf  this  last  year.  You'll  be  de- 
loighted  with  it  whin  you  once  get  there. 
There's  good  whiskey  there  too.  The  best 
in  the  country.  We'll  go  there." 

"And  when?" 

"Well,  well — the  seconds  may  areenge 
about  that.  How'll  nixt  Monday  do  ?  " 

"  Delightfully,  if  it  suits  you." 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  shooted  at  any  toime." 

"  What  shall  we  meet  with  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Sure  that's  for  you  to  decoide." 

"  Pistols,"  I  suggested. 


90 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


O'Halloran  nodded. 

"  I  really  have  no  preference.  I'll  leave 
it  to  you  if  you  like,"  said  I. 

O'Halloran  rose — a  benevolent  smile  illu 
mined  his  face.  He  pressed  my  hand. 

"  Me  boy,"  said  he,  with  the  same  pater 
nal  tone  which  he  had  thus  far  maintained, 
"  don't  mintion  it.  Aihter  will  do.  We'll 
say  pistols.  Me  boy,  ye're  as  thrue  as 
steel — "  He  paused,  and  then  wringing  my 
hand,  he  said  in  a  voice  tremulous  with 
emotion — "  Me  boy,  ye're  an  honor  to  yer 
sex!" 

CHAPTER   XXVII. 

SENSATIONAL  ! — TERRIFIC  ! — TREMENDOUS  ! — I 
LEAVE  THE  HOUSE  IN  A  STRANGE  WHIRL. 
— A  STORM. — THE  DRIVING  SLEET. — I  WAN 
DER  ABOUT. — THE  VOICES  OF  THE  STORM, 
AND  OF  THE  RIVER. — THE  CLANGOR  OF  THE 
BELLS. — THE  SHADOW  IN  THE  DOORWAY. — 
THE  MYSTERIOUS  COMPANION. — A  TERRIBLE 
WALK. — FAMILIAR  VOICES. — SINKING  INTO 
SENSELESSNESS. — THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE  IS 
REVEALED  AT  LAST  AMID  THE  STORM  ! 

As  I  left  the  house  there  came  a  blast 
of  stinging  sleet,  which  showed  me  that  it 
was  a  wild  night.  It  was  not  many  days 
now  since  that  memorable  journey  on  the 
river;  and  the  storm  that  was  blowing 
seemed  to  be  the  counterpart  and  con 
tinuation  of  that.  It  had  been  overcast 
when  I  entered  O'Halloran's ;  when  I  left 
it,  the  storm  had  gathered  up  into  fury,  and 
the  wind  howled  around,  and  the  furious 
sleet  dashed  itself  fiercely  against  me.  The 
street  was  deserted.  None  would  go  out 
on  so  wild  a  night.  It  was  after  eleven ; 
half-past,  perhaps. 

For  a  moment  I  turned  my  back  to  the 
sleet,  and  then  drew  forth  my  cloud  from 
my  pocket,  and  bound  it  about  my  head. 


Thus  prepared,  and  thus  armed,  I  was  ready 
to  encounter  the  fiercest  sleet  that  ever 
blew.  I  went  down  the  steps,  took  the 
sidewalk,  and  went  off. 

As  I  went  on,  my  mind  was  filled  with 
many  thoughts.  A  duel  was  before  me; 
but  I  gave  that  no  consideration.  The 
storm  howled  about  and  shrieked  between 
the  houses;  but  the  storm  was  nothing. 
There  was  that  in  my  heart  and  in  my 
brain  which  made  all  these  things  trivial. 
It  was  the  image  of  my  Lady  of  the  Ice, 
and  the  great  longing  after  her,  which,  for 
the  past  few  days,  had  steadily  increased. 

I  had  found  her !  I  had  lost  her !  Lost 
and  found  !  Found  and  lost ! 

The  wrath  of  the  storm  had  only  this 
one  effect  on  me,  that  it  brought  before  me 
with  greater  vividness  the  events  of  that 
memorable  day  on  the  river.  Through 
such  a  storm  we  had  forced  our  way. 
From  such  pitiless  peltings  of  stinging 
sleet  I  had  sheltered  her  fainting,  drooping 
head.  This  was  the  hurricane  that  had 
howled  about  her  as  she  lay  prostrate, 
upheld  in  my  arms,  which  hurled  its 
wrathful  showers  on  her  white,  upturned 
face.  From  this  I  had  saved  her,  and  from 
worse — from  the  grinding  ice,  the  falling 
avalanche,  the  dark,  deep,  cold,  freezing 
flood.  I  had  brought  her  back  to  life 
through  all  these  perils,  and  now — and 
now ! — 

Now,  for  that  Lady  of  the  Ice,  whose 
image  was  brought  up  before  me  by  the 
tempest  and  the  storm,  there  arose  within 
me  a  mighty  and  irrepressible  yearning. 
She  had  become  identified  with  Nora,  but 
yet  it  was  not  Nora's  face  and  Nora's  image 
that  dwelt  within  my  mind.  That  smiling 
face,  with  its  sparkling  eyes  and  its  witch 
ing  smile,  was  another  thing,  and  seemed  to 
belong  to  another  person.  It  was  not  Nora 
herself  whom  I  had  loved,  but  Nora  as  she 


SENSATIONAL  !— TEEKIFIC  !— TEEMENDOUS  ! 


91 


stood  the  representative  of  my  Lady  of  the 
Ice.  Moreover,  I  had  seen  Nora  in  un 
feigned  distress ;  I  had  seen  her  wringing 
her  hands  and  looking  at  me  with  piteous 
entreaty  and  despair ;  but  even  the  power 
of  these  strong  emotions  had  not  given  her 
the  face  that  haunted  me.  Nora  on  the 
ice  and  Nora  at  home  were  so  different, 
that  they  could  not  harmonize ;  nor  could 
the  never-to-be-forgotten  lineaments  of  the 
one  be  traced  in  the  other.  And,  could 
Nora  now  have  been  with  me  in  this 
storm,  1  doubted  whether  her  face  could 
again  assume  that  marble,  statuesque  beau 
ty — that  immortal  sadness  and  despair, 
which  I  had  once  seen  upon  it.  That 
face — the  true  face  that  I  loved — could  I 
ever  see  it  again  ? 

I  breasted  the  storm  and  walked  on  I 
knew  not  where.  At  last  I  found  myself 
on  the  Esplanade.  Beneath  lay  the  river, 
which  could  not  now  be  seen  through  the 
blackness  of  the  storm  and  of  the  night, 
but  which,  through  that  blackness,  sent 
forth  a  voice  from  all  its  waves.  And  the 
wind  wailed  mournfully,  mingling  its  voice 
with  that  of  the  river.  So  once  before  had 
rushing,  dashing  water  joined  its  uproar 
to  the  howl  of  pitiless  winds,  when  I  bore 
her  over  the  river ;  only  on  that  occasion 
there  was  joined  in  the  horrid  chorus  the 
more  fearful  boom  of  the  breaking  ice 
fields. 

And  now  the  voice  of  the  river  only  in 
creased  and  intensified  that  longing  of 
which  I  have  spoken.  I  could  not  go 
home.  I  thought  of  going  back  again  to 
O'Halloran's  house.  There  was  my  Lady 
of  the  Ice — Nora.  I  might  see  her  shadow 
on  the  window — I  might  see  a  light  from 
her  room. 

Now  Nora  had  not  at  all  come  up  to  my 
ideal  of  the  Lady  of  the  Ice,  and  yet  there 
was  no  other  representative.  I  might  be 


mad  in  love  with  an  image,  a  shadow,  an 
idea ;  but  if  that  image  existed  anywhere  in 
real  life,  it  could  exist  only  in  Nora.  And 
thus  Nora  gained  from  my  image  an  attrac 
tiveness,  which  she  never  could  have  had  in 
her  own  right.  It  was  her  identity  with 
that  haunting  image  of  loveliness  that  gave 
her  such  a  charm.  The  charm  was  an  ima 
ginary  one.  Had  I  never  found  her  on  the 
river  and  idealized  her,  she  might  have 
gained  my  admiration  ;  but  she  would 
never  have  thrown  over  me  such  a  spell. 
But  now,  whatever  she  was  in  herself,  she 
was  so  merged  in  that  ideal,  that  in  my 
longing  for  my  love  I  turned  my  steps 
backward  and  wandered  toward  O'Hallo 
ran's,  with  the  frantic  hope  of  seeing  her 
shadow  on  the  window,  or  a  ray  of  light 
from  her  room.  For  I  could  find  no  other 
way  than  this  of  satisfying  those  insatia 
ble  longings  that  had  sprung  up  within 
me. 

So  back  I  went  through  the  storm,  which 
seemed  still  to  increase  in  fury,  and  through 
the  sleet,  which  swept  in  long  horizontal 
lines  down  the  street,  and  whirled  round 
the  corner,  and  froze  fast  to  the  houses. 
As  I  went  on,  the  violence  of  the  storm  did 
not  at  all  weaken  my  purpose.  I  had  my 
one  idea,  and  that  one  idea  I  was  bent  on 
carrying  out. 

Under  such  circumstances  I  approached 
the  house  of  O'Halloran.  I  don't  know 
what  I  expected,  or  whether  I  expected  any 
thing  or  not.  I  know  what  I  wanted.  I 
wanted  the  Lady  of  the  Ice,  and  in  search 
of  her  I  had  thus  wandered  back  to  that 
house  in  which  lived  the  one  with  whom 
she  had  been  identified.  A  vague  idea  of 
seeing  her  shadow  on  the  window  still  pos 
sessed  me,  and  so  I  kept  along  on  the  oppo 
site  sidewalk,  and  looked  up  to  see  if  there 
was  any  light  or  any  shadow. 

There  was  no  liffht  at  all. 


92 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


I  stood  still  and  gazed. 

Was  there  a  shadow  ?  Or  what  was  it  ? 
There  was  something  moving  there — a 
dark,  dusky  shadow,  in  a  niche  of  the  gate 
way,  by  the  corner  of  the  house — a  dark 
shadow,  dimly  revealed  in  this  gloom — the 
shadowy  outline  of  a  woman's  for-m. 

I  do  not  know  what  mad  idea  possessed 
me.  I  looked,  while  my  heart  beat  fast 
and  painfully.  A  witd  idea  of  the  Lady 
of  the  Ice  coming  to  me  again,  amid  the 
storm,  to  be  again  my  companion  through 
the  storm,  flashed  like  lightning  through 
my  brain. 

Suddenly,  wild  and  clear  and  clanging, 
there  came  the  toll  of  a  bell  from  a  neigh 
boring  tower,  as  it  began  to  strike  the  hour 
of  midnight.  For  a  moment  I  paused  in  a 
sort  of  superstitious  terror,  and  then,  be 
fore  the  third  stroke  had  rung  out,  I  rushed 
across  the  street. 

The  figure  had  been  watching  me. 

As  I  came,  she  started.  She  hurried  for 
ward,  and  met  me  at  the  curb.  "With  a 
wild  rush  of  joy  and  exultation,  I  caught 
her  in  my  arms.  I  felt  her  frame  tremble. 
At  length  she  disengaged  herself  and 
caught  my  arm  with  a  convulsive  clasp, 
and  drew  me  away.  Mechanically,  and 
with  no  fixed  idea  of  any  kind,  I  walked 
off. 

She  walked  slowly.  In  that  fierce  gale, 
rapid  progress  was  not  possible.  She, 
however,  was  well  protected  from  the  blast. 
A  cloud  was  wrapped  around  her  head,  and 
kept  her  face  from  the  storm. 

We  walked  on,  and  I  felt  my  heart  throb 
to  suffocation,  while  my  brain  reeled  with 
a  thousand  new  and  wild  fancies.  Amid 
these,  something  of  my  late  superstition 
still  lingered. 

"Who  is  she  ?"  I  wondered ;  "Who  is 
she  ?  How  did  she  happen  to  wait  for  me 
here  ?  Is  it  my  Lady  of  the  Ice  ?  Am  I  a 


haunted  man  ?  Will  she  always  thus  come 
to  me  in  the  storm,  and  leave  me  when  the 
storm  is  over  ?  Where  am  I  going  ? 
Whither  is  she  leading  me  ?  Is  she  taking 
me  back  to  the  dark  river  from  which  I 
saved  her?" 

Then  I  struggled  against  the  supersti 
tious  fancy,  and  rallied  and  tried  to  think 
calmly  about  it.  ^ 

"  Yes.  It's  Nora,"  I  thought ;  "  it's  her 
self.  She  loves  me.  This  was  the  cause  of 
her  distress.  And  that  distress  has  over 
mastered  her.  She  has  been  unable  to  en 
dure  my  departure.  She  has  been  con 
vinced  that  I  would  return,  and  has  waited 
for  me. 

"Nora!  Yes,  Nora!  Nora!  But,, 
Nora !  what  is  this  that  I  am  doing  ? 
This  Nora  can  never  be  mine.  She  be 
longs  to  another.  She  was  mine  only 
through  my  mistake.  How  can  she  hope 
to  be  mine,  or  how  can  I  hope  to  be  hers  ? 
And  why  is  it  that  I  can  dare  thus  to  take 
her  to  ruin  ?  Can  I  have  the  heart  to  ?  " 

I  paused  involuntarily,  as  the  full  horror 
of  this  idea  burst  upon  me.  For,  divested 
of  all  sentiment,  the  bald  idea  that  burst 
upon  my  whirling  brain  was  simply  this, 
that  I  was  running  away  with  the  wife  of 
another  man,  and  that  man  the  very  one 
who  had  lately  given  me  his  hospitality, 
and  called  me  his  friend.  And  even  so 
whirling  a  brain  as  mine  then  was,  could 
not  avoid  being  penetrated  by  an  idea  that 
was  so  shocking  to  every  sentiment  of  hon 
or,  and  loyalty,  and  chivalry,  and  duty. 

But  as  I  paused,  my  companion  forced 
me  on.  She  had  not  said  a  single  word. 
Her  head  was  bent  down  to  meet  the 
storm.  She  walked  like  one  bent  on  some 
desperate  purpose,  and  that  purpose  was 
manifestly  too  strong  and  too  absorbing 
to  be  checked  by  any  thing  so  feeble  as 
my  fitful  and  uncertain  irresolution.  She 


took  the  cloud  which  was  wrapped  around  her  head,  and  tenderly  and  delicately  drew  it  down 
from  her  face.    Oh,  Heavens  !  what  was  this  that  I  saw?    -page  93. 


SENSATIONAL  !— TEKEIFIC  !— TKEMENDOUS  ! 


93 


walked  on  like  some  fate  that  had  gained 
possession  of  me.  I  surrendered  to  the 
power  that  thus  held  me.  I  ceased  even  to 
think  of  pausing. 

At  length  we  came  to  where  there  was  a 
large  house  with  lights  streaming  from  all 
the  windows.  It  was  Colonel  Berton's — I 
knew  it  well.  A  ball  had  been  going  on,  and 
the  guests  were  departing.  Down  came  the 
sleighs  as  they  carried  off  the  guests,  the 
jangle  of  the  bells  sounding  shrilly  in  the 
stormy  night.  Thus  far  in  my  wanderings 
all  had  been  still,  and  this  sudden  noise 
produced  a  startling  effect. 

One  sleigh  was  still  at  the  door,  and  as 
we  approached  nearer  we  could  see  that 
none  others  were  there.  It  was  probably 
waiting  for  the  last  guest.  At  length  we 
reached  the  house,  and  were  walking  imme 
diately  under  the  bright  light  of  the  draw 
ing-room  windows,  when  suddenly  the  door 
of  the  house  opened,  and  a  familiar  voice 
sounded,  speaking  in  loud,  eager,  hilarious 
tones. 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice  my  companion 
stopped,  and  staggered  back,  and  then  stood 
rigid  with  her  head  thrust  forward. 

It  was  Jack's  voice. 

"  Thanks,"  he  said.  "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
You're  awfully  kind,  you  know.  Oh,  yes. 
I'll  be  here  to-morrow  night.  Good-by. 
Good-by." 

He  rushed  down  the  steps.  The  door 
closed.  He  sprang  into  the  sleigh.  It 
started  ahead  in  an  opposite  direction,  and 
away  it  went,  till  the  jangle  of  the  bells 
died  out  in  the  distance,  amid  the  storm. 

All  was  still.  The  street  was  deserted. 
The  storm  had  full  possession.  The  lights 
of  the  house  flashed  out  upon  the  snow 
drifts,  and  upon  the  glittering,  frozen  sleet. 

For  a  moment  my  companion  stood  root 
ed  to  the  spot.  Then  snatching  her  arm 
from  mine,  she  flung  up  her  hand  with  a 


sudden  gesture,  and  tore  my  cloud  down 
from  off  my  face.  The  lights  from  the 
windows  shone  upon  me,  revealing  my  fea 
tures  to  her. 

The  next  instant  her  arms  fell.  She 
staggered  back,  and  with  a  low  moan  of 
heart-broken  anguish,  she  sank  down  pros 
trate  into  the  snow. 

Now  hitherto  there  had  been  on  my  mind 
a  current  of  superstitious  feeling  which  had 
animated  most  of  my  wild  fancies.  It  had 
been  heightened  by  the  events  of  my  wan 
derings.  The  howl  of  the  storm,  the  voice 
of  the  dark  river,  the  clangor  of  the  mid 
night  bell,  the  shadowy  figure  at  the  door 
way — all  these  circumstances  had  combined 
to  stimulate  my  imagination  and  disorder 
my  brain.  But  now,  on  my  arrival  at  this 
house,  these  feelings  had  passed  away. 
These  signs  of  commonplace  life — the  jang 
ling  sleigh-bells,  the  lighted  windows,  the 
departing  company — had  roused  me,  and 
brought  me  to  myself.  Finally,  there 
came  the  sound  of  Jack's  voice,  hearty, 
robust,  healthy,  strong — at  the  sound  of 
which  the  dark  shadows  of  my  mind  were 
dispelled.  And  it  was  at  this  moment, 
when  all  these  phantasms  had  vanished, 
that  my  companion  fell  senseless  in  the 
snow  at  my  feet. 

I  stooped  down  full  of  wonder,  and  full 
too  of  pity.  I  raised  her  in  my  arms.  I 
supported  her  head  on  my  shoulder.  The 
storm  beat  pitilessly  ;  the  stinging  sleet 
pelted  my  now  uncovered  face ;  the  lights 
of  the  house  shone  out  upon  the  form  of 
my  companion.  All  the  street  was  desert 
ed.  No  one  in  the  house  saw  us.  I,  for 
my  part,  did  not  think  whether  I  was  seen 
or  not.  All  my  thoughts  were  turned  to  the 
one  whom  I  held  in  my  arms. 

I  took  the  cloud  which  was  wrapped 
around  her  head,  and  tenderly  and  deli 
cately  drew  it  down  from  her  face. 


94 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


Oh,  Heavens  !  what  was  this  that  I  saw  ? 

The  lights  flashed  out,  and  revealed  it 
unmistakably.  There — then — resting  on 
my  shoulder — under  my  gaze — now  fully 
revealed — there  lay  the  face  that  had 
haunted  me — the  face  for  which  I  had 
longed,  and  yearned,  and  craved!  There 
it  lay — that  never-to-be-forgotten  face — 
with  the  marble  features,  the  white  lips,  the 
closed  eyes,  the  stony  calm — there  it  lay — 
the  face  of  her  whom  alone  I  loved — the 
Lady  of  the  Ice ! 

What  was  this  ?  I  felt  my  old  mood  re 
turning.  Was  this  real?  Was  it  not  a 
vision  ?  How  was  it  that  she  came  to  me 
again  through  the  storm,  again  to  sink 
down,  and  again  to  rest  her  senseless  form 
in  ray  arms,  and  her  head  upon  my  breast? 

For  a  few  moments  I  looked  at  her  in 
utter  bewilderment.  All  the  wild  fancies 
which  I  had  just  been  having  now  came 
back.  I  had  wandered  through  the  storm 
in  search  of  her,  and  she  had  come.  Here 
she  was — here,  HI  my  arms  ! 

Around  us  the  storm  raged  as  once  be 
fore  ;  and  again,  as  before,  the  fierce  sleet 
dashed  upon  that  white  face ;  and  again, 
as  before,  I  shielded  it  from  its  fury. 

As  I  looked  upon  her  I  could  now  recog 
nize  her  fully  and  plainly  ;  and  at  that  rec 
ognition  the  last  vestige  of  my  wild,  super 
stitious  feeling  died  out  utterly.  For  she 
whom  I  held  in  my  arms  was  no  phantom, 
nor  was  she  Nora.  I  had  been  in  some 
way  intentionally  deceived,  but  all  the  time 
my  own  instinct  had  been  true ;  for,  now, 
when  the  Lady  of  the  Ice  again  lay  in  my 
arms,  I  recognized  her,  and  I  saw  that  she 
was  no  other  than  Marion.' 


CHAPTER  XXVIH. 

MY  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. — SNOW  AND  SLEET. — 
REAWAKENING. — A  DESPERATE  SITUATION. — 
SAVED  A  SECOND  TIME. — SNATCHED  FROM  A 
WORSE  FATE. — BORNE  IN  MY  ARMS  ONCE 
MORE. — THE  OPEN  DOOR. 

So  there  she  lay  before  me — the  Lady 
of  the  Ice,  discovered  at  last,  and  identi 
fied  with  Marion.  And  she  lay  there  re 
clining  on  my  arms  as  once  before,  and  in 
the  snow,  with  the  pitiless  blast  beating 
upon  her.  And  the  first  question  that 
arose  was,  "  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

Ay — that  was  the  question.  What  could 
I  do? 

I  leave  to  the  reader  to  try  and  imagine 
the  unparalleled  embarrassment  of  such  a 
situation.  For  there  was  I,  in  an  agony  of 
eagerness  to  save  her — to  do  something — 
and  yet  it  was  simply  impossible  to  think 
of  any  one  place  to  which  I  could  take  her. 

Could  I  take  her  into  Colonel  Berton's  ? 
That  was  my  first  impulse.  The  lights 
from  his  windows  were  flashing  brightly 
out  into  the  gloom  close  beside  us.  But 
how  could  I  take  her  there  ?  With  what 
story  ?  Or  if  I  trumped  up  some  story — 
which  I  easily  could  do — would  she  not  be 
tray  herself  by  her  own  incoherencies  as 
she  recovered  from  her  faint?  No,  not 
Colonel  Berton's.  Where,  then?  Could 
I  take  her  anywhere  ?  To  an  hotel  ?  No. 
To  any  friends?  Certainly  not.  To  her 
own  home  ? — But  she  had  fled,  and  it  was 
locked  against  her.  Where — where  could 
I  take  her  ? 

For  I  had  to  do  something.  I  could  not 
let  her  lie  here — she  would  perish.  I  had 
to  take  her  somewhere,  and  yet  save  her 
from  that  ruin  and  shame  to  which  her 
rashness  and  Jack's  perfidy  had  exposed 


MY  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


95 


her.  Too  plain  it  all  seemed  now.  Jack 
had  urged  her  to  fly — beyond  a  doubt — 
she  had  consented,  and  he  had  not  come 
for  her. 

I  raised  her  up  in  my  arms,  and  carried 
her  on.  Once  before  I  had  thus  carried  her 
in  my  arms — thus,  as  I  saved  her  from 
death ;  and  now,  as  I  thus  bore  her,  I  felt 
that  I  was  trying  to  save  her  from  a  fate 
far  worse — from  scandal,  from  evil  speak 
ing — from  a  dishonored  name — from  a 
father's  curse.  And  could  I  but  save  her 
from  this — could  I  but  bear  her  a  second 
time  from  this  darker  fate  back  to  light, 
and  life,  and  safety;  then  I  felt  assured 
that  my  Lady  of  the  Ice  could  not  so  soon 
forget  this  second  service. 

I  raised  her  up  and  carried  her  thus  I 
knew  not  where.  There  was  not  a  soul  in 
the  streets.  The  lamps  gave  but  a  feeble 
light  in  the  wild  storm.  The  beating  of 
the  sleet  and  the  howling  of  the  tempest 
increased  at  every  step.  My  lady  was 
senseless  in  my  arms.  I  did  not  know 
where  I  was  going,  nor  where  I  could  go  ; 
but  breasted  the  storm,  and  shielded  my 
burden  from  it  as  well  as  I  could;  and 
so  toiled  on,  in  utter  bewilderment  and 
desperation. 

Now  I  beg  leave  to  ask  the  reader  if  this 
situation  of  mine  was  not  as  embarrassing  a 
one  as  any  that  he  ever  heard  of.  For  I 
thus  found  forced  upon  me  the  safety,  the 
honor,  and  the  life  of  the  very  Lady  of  the 
Ice  for  whom  I  had  already  risked  my  life 
— whose  life  I  had  already  saved ;  and  about 
whom  I  had  been  raving  ever  since.  But 
now  that  she  had  thus  been  thrown  upon 
me,  with  her  life,  and  her  honor,  it  was  an 
utterly  impossible  thing  to  see  how  I  could 
exti-icate  her  from  this  frightful  difficulty ; 
though  so  fervent  was  my  longing  to  do 
this,  that,  if  my  life  could  have  done  it,  I 
would  have  laid  it  down  for  her  on  the  spot. 


At  last,  to  my  inexpressible  relief,  I 
heard  from  her  a  low  moan.  I  put  her 
down  on  the  door-step  of  a  house  close 
by,  and  sat  by  her  side  supporting  her.  A 
lamp  was  burning  not  far  away. 

She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  then  raised 
herself  suddenly,  and  looked  all  around. 
Gradually  the  truth  of  her  position  returned 
to  her.  She  drew  herself  away  from  me, 
and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sat 
in  silence  for  a  long  time.  I  waited  in 
patience  and  anxiety  for  her  to  speak,  and 
feared  that  the  excitement  and  the  anguish 
which  she  had  undergone  might  have  affect 
ed  her  mind. 

Suddenly  she  started,  and  looked  at  me 
With  staring  eyes. 

"Did  he  send  you?"  she  gasped,  in  a 
strange,  hoarse,  choking  voice. 

Her  face,  her  tone,  and  the  emphasis  of 
her  words,  all  showed  the  full  nature  of  the 
dark  suspicion  that  had  flung  itself  over 
her  mind. 

"He!  Me!"  I  cried,  indignantly. 
"  Never !  never !  Can  you  have  the  heart 
to  suspect  me  ?  Have  I  deserved  this  ?  " 

"  It  looks  like  it,"  said  she,  coldly. 

"  Oh,  listen !  "  I  cried  ;  "  listen  !  I  will 
explain  my  coming.  It  was  a  mistake,  an 
accident.  I  swear  to  you,  ever  since  that 
day  on  the  ice,  I've  been  haunted  by  your 
face—" 

She  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  Well,  not  your  face,  then.  I  did  not 
know  it  was  yours.  I  called  it  the  Lady  of 
the  Ice." 

"  I  do  not  care  to  hear,"  said  she,  coldly. 

"  Oh,  listen ! "  I  said.  "  I  want  to  clear 
myself  from  your  horrid  suspicion.  I  was 
at  your  house  this  evening.  After  leaving, 
I  wandered  wildly  about.  I  couldn't  go 
home.  It  was  half  madness  and  supersti 
tion.  I  went  to  the  Esplanade,  and  there 
seemed  voices  in  the  storm.  I  wandered 


96 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


back  again  to  your  house,  with  a  vague  and 
half-crazy  idea  that  the  Lady  of  the  Ice  was 
calling  me.  As  I  came  up  to  the  house,  I 
saw  a  shadowy  figure  on  the  other  side.  I 
thought  it  was  the  Lady  of  the  Ice,  and 
crossed  over,  not  knowing  what  I  was  do 
ing.  The  figure  came  and  took  my  arm.  I 
walked  on,  frozen  into  a  sort  of  supersti 
tious  silence.  I  swear  to  you,  it  happened 
exactly  in  this  way,  and  that  for  a  time  I 
really  thought  it  was  the  Lady  of  the  Ice 
who  had  come  to  meet  me  in  the  storm.  I 
held  back  once  or  twice,  but  to  no  avail. 
I  swear  to  you  that  I  never  had  the  re 
motest  idea  that  it  was  you,  till  the  mo 
ment  when  you  fell,  and  I  saw  that  you 
yourself  were  the  Lady  of  the  Ice.  I  did 
not  recognize  you  before ;  but,  when  your 
face  was  pale,  with  suffering  and  fear  upon 
it,  then  you  became  the  same  one  whom  I 
have  never  forgotten." 

"  He  did  not  send  you,  then  ?  "  said  she 
again; 

"  He  ?  No.  I  swear  he  didn't ;  but  all  is 
just  as  I  have  said.  Besides,  we  have  quar 
relled,  and  I  have  neither  seen  nor  heard  of 
him  for  two  days." 

She  said  nothing  in  reply,  but  again 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sat 
crouching  on  the  door-step.  The  storm 
howled  about  us  with  tremendous  fury. 
All  the  houses  in  the  street  were  dark, 
and  the  street  itself  showed  no  living  forms 
but  ours.  A  lamp,  not  far  off,  threw  a  fee 
ble  light  upon  us. 

«  Come,"  said  I  at  last ;  "  I  have  saved 
you  once  from  death,  and,  I  doubt  not,  I 
have  been  sent  by  Fate  to  save  you  once 
again.  If  you  stay  here  any  longer,  you 
must  perish.  You  must  rouse  yourself." 

I  spoke  vehemently  and  quickly,  and  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  would  listen  to  no  re 
fusal.  I  was  roused  now,  at  last,  from  al 
irresolution  by  the  very  sight  of  her  suffer 


ng.  I  saw  that  to  remain  here  much  lon 
ger  would  be  little  else  than  death  for  her. 

"  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  she  moaned. 

"  Tell  me  of  some  place  where  I  can  take 
rou." 

"  There  is  no  place.     How  could  I  dare 

0  go  to  any  of  my  friends  ?  " 
"  Why  should  you  not  ?  " 
"  I  cannot — I  cannot." 

"  You  can  easily  make  up  some  story  for 
the  occasion.  Tell  me  the  name  of  some 
one,  and  I  will  take  you." 

"No,"  said  she. 

"  Then,"  said  I,  "you  must  go  home." 

"  Home  !  home  !  "  she  gasped. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  firmly,  "home.  Home 
you  must  go,  and  nowhere  else." 

"  I  cannot." 

"  You  must." 

"  I  will  not ;  I  will  die  first." 

"  You  shall  not  die ! "  I  cried,  passion 
ately.  "  You  shall  not  die  while  I  am  near 
you.  I  have  saved  your  life  before,  and  I 
will  not  let  it  end  in  this.  No,  you  shall 
not  die— I  swear  by  all  that's  holy !  I  my 
self  will  carry  you  home." 

"  I  cannot,"  she  murmured,  feebly. 

"  You  must,"  said  I.  "  This  is  not  a 
question  of  death — it's  a  question  of  dis 
honor.  Home  is  the  only  haven  where 
you  can  find  escape  from  that,  and  to  that 
home  I  will  take  you." 

"  Oh,  my  God  ! "  she  wailed  ;  "  how  can 

1  meet  my  father  ?  " 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  again, 
and  sobbed  convulsively. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  I.  "I  will 
meet  him,  and  explain  all.  Or  say— answer 
me  this,"  I  added,  in  fervid,  vehement  tones 
— "  I  can  do  more  than  this.  I  will  tell  him 
it  was  all  my  doing.  I  will  accept  his  an 
ger.  I'll  tell  him  I  was  half  mad,  and  re 
pented.  I'll  tell  any  thing— any  thing  you 
like.  I'll  shield  you  so  that  all  his  fury 


MY  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


shall  fall  on  me,  and  he  will  have  nothing 
for  you  but  pity." 

"  Stop,"  said  she,  solemnly,  rising  to  her 
feet,  and  looking  at  me  with  her  white  face 
— "  stop  !  You  must  not  talk  so.  I  owe 
my  life  to  you  already.  Do  not  overwhelm 
me.  You  have  now  deliberately  offered  to 
accept  dishonor  for  my  sake.  It  is  too 
much.  If  my  gratitude  is  worth  having,  I 
assure  you  I  am  grateful  beyond  words. 
But  your  offer  is  impossible.  Never  would 
I  permit  it." 

"Will  you  go  home,  then?"  I  asked, 
as  she  paused. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  slowly. 

I  offered  my  arm,  and  she  took  it,  leaning 
heavily  upon  me.  Our  progress  was  slow, 
for  the  storm  was  fierce,  and  she  was  very 
weak. 

"  I  think,"  said  she,  "  that  in  my  haste 
I  left  the  back  door  unlocked.  If  so,  I 
may  get  in  without  being  observed." 

"  I  pray  Heaven  it  may  be  so,"  said  I, 
"  for  in  that  case  all  trouble  will  be  avoid 
ed." 

"We  walked  on  a  little  farther.  She  leaned 
more  and  more  heavily  upon  me,  and  walked 
more  and  more  slowly.  At  last  she  stopped. 

I  knew  what  was  the  matter.  She  was 
utterly  exhausted,  and  to  go  farther  was 
impossible.  I  did  not  question  her  at  all. 
I  said  nothing.  I  stooped,  and  raised  her 
in  my  arms  without  a  word,  and  walked  vig 
orously  onward.  She  murmured  a  few 
words  of  complaint,  and  struggled  feebly ; 
but  I  took  no  notice  whatever  of  her  words 
or  her  struggles.  But  her  weakness  was 
too  great  even  for  words.  She  rested  on 
me  like  a  dead  weight,  and  I  would  have 
been  sure  that  she  had  fainted  again,  had 
I  not  felt  the  convulsive  shudders  that  from 
time  to  time  passed  through  her  frame,  and 
heard  her  frequent  heavy  sighs  and  sob 
bings. 

7 


So  I  walked  on  through  the  roaring 
storm,  beaten  by  the  furious  sleet,  bearing 
my  burden  in  my  arms,  as  I  had  done  once 
before.  And  it  was  the  same  burden,  under 
the  same  circumstances — my  Lady  of  the 
Ice,  whom  I  thus  again  uplifted  in  my  arms 
amid  the  storm,  and  snatched  from  a  cruel 
fate,  and  carried  back  to  life  and  safety 
and  home.  And  I  knew  that  this  salvation 
which  she  now  received  from  me  was  far 
more  precious  than  that  other  one ;  for  that 
was  a  rescue  from  death,  but  this  was  a 
rescue  from  dishonor. 

We  reached  the  house  at  last.  The  gate 
which  led  into  the  yard  was  not  fastened. 
I  carried  her  in,  and  put  her  down  by  the 
back  door.  I  tried  it.  It  opened. 

The  sight  of  that  open  door  gave  her 
fresh  life  and  strength.  She  put  one  foot 
on  the  threshold. 

Then  she  turned. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  thrilling 
voice,  "  I  pray  God  that  it  may  ever  be  in 
my  power  to  do  something  for  you — some 
day — in  return — for  all  this.  God  bless 
you  !  you  have  saved  me — " 

And  with  these  words  she  entered  the 
house.  The  door  closed  between  us — she 
was  gone. 

I  stood  and  listened  for  a  long  time.  All 
was  still. 

"  Thank  Heaven  ! "  I  murmured,  as  I 
turned  away.  "  The  family  have  not  been 
alarmed.  She  is  safe."  « 

I  went  home,  but  did  not  sleep  that  night. 
My  brain  was  in  a  whirl  from  the  excite 
ment  of  this  new  adventure.  In  that  ad 
venture  every  circumstance  was  one  of  the 
most  impressive  character ;  and  at  the  same 
time  every  thing  was  contradictory  and  be 
wildering  to  such  an  extent  that  I  did  not 
know  whether  to  congratulate  myself  or 
not,  whether  to  rejoice  or  lament.  I  might 
rejoice  at  finding  the  Lady  of  the  Ice ;  but 


98 


THE  LADY   OF  THE  ICE. 


my  joy  was  modified  by  the  thought  that  I 
found  her  meditating  flight  with  another 
man.  I  had  saved  her ;  but  then  I  was 
very  well  aware  that,  if  I  had  not  come, 
she  might  never  have  left  her  home,  and 
might  never  have  been  in  a  position  to  need 
help.  Jack  had,  no  doubt,  neglected  to 
meet  her.  Over  some  things,  however,  I 
found  myself  exulting — first,  that,  after  all, 
I  had  saved  her,  and,  secondly,  that  she  had 
found  out  Jack. 

As  for  Jack,  my  feelings  to  him  under 
went  a  rapid  and  decisive  change.  My  ex 
citement  and  irritation  died  away.  I  saw 
that  we  had  both  been  under  a  mistake. 
I  might  perhaps  have  blamed  him  for  his 
treachery  toward  Marion  in  urging  her  to 
a  rash  and  ruinous  elopement;  but  any 
blame  which  I  threw  on  him  was  largely 
modified  by  a  certain  satisfaction  which  I 
felt  in  •  knowing  that  his  failure  to  meet 
her,  fortunate  as  it  was  for  her,  and  fortu 
nate  as  it  was  also  for  himself,  would  change 
her  former  love  for  him  into  scorn  and  con 
tempt.  His  influence  over  her  was  hence 
forth  at  an  end,  and  the  only  obstacle  that 
I  saw  in  the  way  of  my  love  was  suddenly 
and  effectually  removed. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

PUZZLING  QUESTIONS  WHICH  CANNOT  BE  AN 
SWERED  AS  YET. — A  STEP  TOWARD  RECON 
CILIATION. REUNION  OF  A  BROKEN  FRIEND 
SHIP. — PIECES  ALL  COLLECTED  AND  JOINED. 
— JOY  OF  JACK. — SOLEMN  DEBATES  OVER 
THE  GREAT  PUZZLE  OF  THE  PERIOD.  — 
FRIENDLY  CONFERENCES  AND  CONFIDENCES. 
— AN  IMPORTANT  COMMUNICATION. 

THE  night  passed,  and  the  morning  came, 
and  the  impression  of  these  recent  events 
grew  more  and  more  vivid.  The  very  cir 
cumstances  under  which  I  found  my  Lady 


of  the  Ice  were  not  such  as  are  generally 
chosen  by  the  novelist  for  an  encounter 
between  the  hero  and  heroine  of  his  novel. 
Of  that  I  am  well  aware  ;  but  then  I'm  not 
a  novelist,  and  I'm  not  a  hero,  and  the  Lady 
of  the  Ice  isn't  a  heroine — so  what  have  you 
ot  to  say  to  that  ?  The  fact  is,  I'm  talking 
about  myself.  I  found  Marion  running 
away,  or  trying  to  run  away,  with  my  inti 
mate  friend.  The  elopement,  however,  did 
not  come  off".  She  was  thrown  into  my  way 
in  an  amazing  manner,  and  I  identified  her 
with  my  Lady,  after  whom  I  longed  and 
pined  with  a  consuming  passion.  Did  the 
discovery  of  the  Lady  of  the  Ice  under  such 
circumstances  change  my  affections  ?  Not 
at  all.  They  only  grew  all  the  stronger. 
The  Lady  was  the  same  as  ever.  I  had  not 
loved  Nora,  but  the  Lady  of  the  Ice ;  and 
now  that  I  found  out  who  she  was,  I  loved 
Marion.  This  happens  to  be  the  actual 
state  of  the  case ;  and,  whether  it  is  artistic 
or  not,  does  not  enter  into  my  mind  for  a 
single  moment. 

Having  thus  explained  my  feelings  con 
cerning  Marion,  it  will  easily  be  seen  that 
any  resentment  which  I  might  have  felt 
against  Jack  for  causing  her  grief,  was 
more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  pros 
pect  I  now  had  that  she  would  give  him  up 
forever.  Besides,  our  quarrel  was  on  the 
subject  of  Nora,  and  this  had  to  be  ex 
plained.  Then,  again,  my  duel  was  on  the 
tapis,  and  I  wanted  Jack  for  a  second.  I 
therefore  determined  to  hunt  him  up  as 
soon  as  possible. 

But  in  the  course  of  the  various  medita 
tions  which  had  filled  the  hours  of  the 
night,  one  thing  puzzled  me  extremely,  and 
that  was  4he  pretension  of  Nora  to  be  my 
Lady  of  the  Ice.  Why  had  she  done  so  ? 
Why  did  Marion  let  her  ?  Why  did  O'Hal- 
loran  announce  his  own  wife  to  me  as  the 
lady  whom  I  had  saved  ?  No  doubt  Nora 


PUZZLING  QUESTIONS  WHICH  CANNOT  BE  ANSWEKED  AS  YET.       99 


and  Marion  had  some  reason.  But  what, 
and  why  ?  And  what  motive  had  O'Hallo- 
ran  for  deceiving  me  ?  Clearly  none.  It 
was  evident  that  he  believed  Nora  to  be  the 
lady.  It  was  also  evident  that  on  the  first 
night  of  the  reading  of  the  advertisement, 
and  my  story,  he  did  not  know  that  the 
companion  of  that  adventure  of  mine  was  a 
member  of  his  family.  The  ladies  knew 
it,  but  he  didn't.  It  was,  therefore,  a 
secret  of  theirs,  which  they  were  keeping 
from  him.  But  why  ?  And  what  possible 
reason  had  Marion  for  denying  it,  and  Nora 
for  coming  forward  and  owning  up  to  a  false 
character  to  O'Halloran  ? 

All  these  were  perplexing  and  utterly 
bewildering  mysteries,  of  which  I  could 
make  nothing. 

At  length  I  cut  short  the  whole  bother 
by  going  off  to  Jack's. 

He  was  just  finishing  his  breakfast. 

The  moment  he  saw  me,  he  started  to  his 
feet,  and  gave  a  spring  toward  me.  Then 
he  grasped  my  hand  in  both  of  his,  while 
his  face  grew  radiant  with  delight. 

"  Macrorie !  old  boy ! "  he  cried.  "  What 
a  perfect  trump !  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  wasn't 
going  straight  over  to  you  !  Couldn't  stand 
this  sort  of  thing  any  longer. — What's  the 
use  of  all  this  beastly  row  ?  I  haven't  had 
a  moment's  peace  since  it  begun.  Yes, 
Macrorie,"  he  continued,  wringing  my  hand 
hard,  "  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  wouldn't  give  up 
every  one  of  the  women — I  was  just  think 
ing  that  I'd  give  them  all  for  a  sight  of 
your  old  face  again — except,  perhaps,  poor 
little  Louie — "  he  added.  "  But,  come,  sit 
down,  load  up,  and  fumigate." 

And  he  brought  out  all  his  pipes,  and 
drew  up  all  his  chairs,  and  showed  such 
unfeigned  delight  at  seeing  me,  that  all  my 
old  feelings  of  friendship  came  back,  and 
resumed  their  places. 

"Well,  old  fellow,"    said    I,   "do   you 


know  in  the  first  place — our  row — you 
know—" 

"  Oh,  bother  the  row ! " 

"  Well,  it  was  all  a  mistake." 

"A  mistake?" 

"  Yes.    We  mistook  the  women." 

"  How's  that  ?    I'm  in  the  dark." 

"  Why,  there  are  two  ladies  at  O'Hallo- 
ran's." 

" Two  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  they  weren't  introduced,  and, 
as  they're  both  young,  I  thought  they  were 
both  his  daughters." 

"  Two  women !  and  young  ?  By  Jove ! " 
cried  Jack — "  and  who's  the  other  ?  " 

"His  wife!" 

"His  wife?  and  young?"  The  idea 
seemed  to  overwhelm  Jack. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  his  wife,  and  young,  and 
beautiful  as  an  angel." 

"  Young,  and  beautiful  as  an  angel ! "  re 
peated  Jack.  "  Good  Lord,  Macrorie ! " 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  thought  his  wife  was 
Miss  O'Halloran,  and  the  other  Miss  Marion." 

"  What's  that  ?  his  wife  ?  You  thought 
she  was  Miss  O'Halloran  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  the  one  I  saved  on  the  ice,  you 
know — " 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  old  fellow,  I'm 
confoundedly  sorry  for  your  sake  that  she's 
a  married  woman.  That  rather  knocks 
your  little  game.  At  the  same  time  it's 
a  very  queer  thing  that  I  didn't  know  any 
thing  about  it.  Still,  I  wasn't  at  the  house 
much,  and  Mrs.  O'Halloran  might  have 
been  out  of  town.  I  didn't  know  any  thing 
about  their  family  affairs,  and  never  heard 
them  mentioned.  I  thought  there  was  only 
a  daughter  in  the  family.  Never  dreamed 
of  there  being  a  wife." 

"  Well,  there  is  a  wife— a  Mrs.  O'Hallo 
ran — so  young  and  beautiful  that  I  took 
her  for  the  old  man's  daughter  ;  and  Jack, 
my  boy,  I'm  in  a  scrape." 


100 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"A  scrape?" 

"Yes — a  duel.  Will  you  be  my  sec 
ond  ?  " 

"A  duel!  "  cried  Jack,  and  gave  a  long 
whistle. 

"  Fact,"  said  I,  "  and  it  all  arose  out  of 
my  mistaking  a  man's  wife  for  his  daugh 
ter." 

"  Mistaking  her  ?  "  cried  Jack,  with  a  roar 
of  laughter.  "  So  you  did.  Oh,  Macrorie  ! 
how  awfully  spooney  you  were  about  her, 
you  know — ready  to  fight  with  your  best 
friend  about  her,  and  all  that,  you  know. 
And  how  did  it  go  on  ?  What  happened  ? 
Come,  now,  don't  do  the  reticent.  Out 
with  it,  man.  Every  bit  of  it.  A  duel! 
And  about  a  man's  wife !  Good  Lord ! 
Macrorie,  you'll  have  to  leave  the  regiment. 
An  affair  like  this  will  rouse  the  whole  town. 
These  infernal  newspapers  will  give  exag 
gerated  accounts  of  every  thing,  you  know. 
And  then  you'll  get  it.  By  Jove,  Macrorie, 
I  begin  to  think  your  scrape  is  worse  than 
mine." 

"  By-the-way,  Jack,  how  are  yo,u  doing  ?  " 

"  Confound  it  man,  what  do  you  take  me 
for  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  a  stalk  or  a  stone. 
No,  by  Jove,  I'm  a  man,  and  I'm  crazy  to 
hear  about  your  affair.  What  happened  ? 
What  did  you  do?  What  did  you  say? 
Something  must  have  taken  place,  you 
know.  You  must  have  been  awfully  sweet 
on  her.  By  Jove!  And  did  the  old  fel 
low  see  you  at  it  ?  Did  he  notice  any 
thing  ?  A  duel !  Something  must  have 
happened.  Oh,  by  Jove  !  don't  I  know  the 
old  rascal !  Not  boisterous,  not  noisy,  but 
keen,  sir,  as  a  razor,  and  every  word  a  dag 
ger.  The  most  savage,  cynical,  cutting,  in 
sulting  old  scoundrel  of  an  Irishman  that 
I  ever  met  with.  By  Heaven,  Macrorie,  I'd 
like  to  be  principal  in  the  duel  instead  of 
second.  By  Jove,  how  that  old  villain  did 
walk  into  me  that  last  time  I  called  there !  " 


"Well,  you  see,"  I  began,  "  when  I  went 
to  his  house  he  introduced  me,  and  didn't 
introduce  /ten" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  talked  with  her  several  times, 
but  for  various  reasons,  unnecessary  to 
state,  I  never  mentioned  her  name.  I  just 
chatted  with  her,  you  know,  the  way  a  fel 
low  generally  does." 

"Was  the  old  fellow  by?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  you  know  yesterday  I  went 
there  and  found  her  alone." 

"  Well  ? " 

"Well — you  know — you  were  so  deter 
mined  at  the  time  of  our  row,  that  I  re 
solved  to  be  beforehand,  so  I  at  .once  made 
a  rush  for  the  prize,  and — and — " 

"And,  what?" 

"Why — did  the  spooney — you  know — 
told  her  my  feelings — and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know." 

I  then  went  on  and  gave  Jack  a  full 
account  of  that  memorable  scene,  the  em 
barrassment  of  Nora,  and  the  arrival  of 
O'Halloran,  together  with  our  evening  after 
ward,  and  the  challenge. 

To  all  this  Jack  listened  with  intense 
eagerness,  and  occasional  bursts  of  uncon 
trollable  laughter. 

I  concluded  my  narrative  with  my  depar 
ture  from  the  house.  Of  my  return,  my 
wanderings  with  Marion,  my  sight  of  him  at 
Berton's,  and  all  those  other  circumstances, 
I  did  not  say  a  word.  Those  things  were 
not  the  sort  that  I  chose  to  reveal  to  any 
body,  much  less  to  Jack. 

Suddenly,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  laugh 
ter  and  nonsense,  Jack's  face  changed. 
He  grew  serious.  He  thrust  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  with  something  like  consterna 
tion,  and  then  drew  forth — 


A  LETTEK  ! 


101 


CHAPTER 


A  LETTER  !  —  STRANGE  HESITATION.  —  GLOOMY 
FOREBODINGS.  —  JACK  DOWN  DEEP  IN  THE 
DUMPS.  —  FRESH  CONFESSIONS.  —  WHY  HE 

MISSED  THE  TRYST:  —  REMORSE  AND  REVENGE. 
—  JACK'S  TOWS  OF  VENGEANCE.  —  A  VERY 
SINGULAR  AND  UNACCOUNTABLE  CHARAC 

TER.  —  JACK'S    GLOOMY  MENACES. 

"BY  Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  "I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  haven't  forgot  all  about  it. 
It's  been  in  my  pocket  ever  since  yesterday 
morning." 

Saying  this,  he  held  up  the  letter,  and 
looked  at  it  for  some  time  without  opening 
it,  and  with  a  strange  mixture  of  embar 
rassment  and  ruefulness  in  his  expression. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  I,  carelessly.  "  A 
letter  ?  Who's  it  from,  Jack  ?  " 

Jack  did  not  give  any  immediate  answer. 
He  turned  the  letter  over  and  over,  looking 
at  it  on  the  front  and  on  the  back. 

"  You  seem  hit  hard,  old  man,"  said  I, 
"  about  something.  Is  it  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Jack,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  only  this,"  said  he,  with  another 
sigh. 

"  What,  that  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  don't  look  like  a  dun,  old  chap  —  so, 
why  fret  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Jack,  with  a  groan. 

"  What's  the  reason  you  don't  open  it  ?  " 

Jack  shook  his  head. 

"I've  a  pretty  good  idea  of  what's  in 
it,"  said  he.  "  There  are  some  letters  you 
can  read  without  opening  them,  old  boy, 
and  this  is  one  of  them.  You  know  the 
general  nature  of  the  contents,  and  you 
don't  feel  altogether  inclined  to  go  over 
all  the  small  details." 


"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  not 
going  to  open  it  ? " 

"  Oh,  I'll  open  it,"  said  Jack,  more  dole 
fully  than  ever. 

"  Then,  why  don't  you  open  it  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there's  no  hurry — there's  plenty  of 
time." 

"  It  must  be  something  very  unimportant. 
You  say  you've  had  it  lying  in  your  pocket 
ever  since  the  day  before  yesterday.  So, 
what's  the  use  of  getting  so  tragic  all  of  a 
sudden?" 

"  Macrorie,  old  chap,"  said  Jack,  in  a 
tone  of  hollow  despair. 

"Well?" 

"  Do  you  see  that  letter  ?  "  and  he  held 
it  up  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  in  that  I  am  to  read  a  convincing 
proof  that  I  am  a  scoundrel !  " 

"A  what?  Scoundrel?  Pooh,  non 
sense  !  What's  up  now  ?  Come,  now,  old 
boy,  no  melodrama.  Out  with  it.  But, 
first  of  all,  read  the  letter." 

Jack  laid  the  unopened  letter  on  the 
table,  filled  his  pipe,  lighted  it,  and  then, 
throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  sat 
staring  at  the  ceiling,  and  sending  forth 
great  clouds  of  smoke  that  gathered  in 
dense  folds  and  soon  hung  overhead  in  a 
dark  canopy. 

I  watched  him  in  silence  for  some  time. 
I  suspected  what  that  letter  might  be,  but 
did  not  in  any  way  let  my  suspicion  ap 
pear. 

"  Jack,"  said  I,  at  last,  "  I've  seen  you 
several  times  in  trouble  during  the  last 
few  days,  but  it  is  now  my  solemn  convic 
tion,  made  up  from  a  long  observation  of 
your  character,  your  manner,  your  general 
style,  and  your  facial  expression,  that  on 
this  present  occasion  you  are  hit  harder 
than  ever  you've  been  since  I  had  the  pleas 
ure  of  your  acquaintance." 


102 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  That's  a  fact,"  said  Jack,  earnestly  and 
solemnly. 

"  It  isn't  a  secret,  you  said  ?  " 

"  No,  not  from  you.  I'll  tell  you  pres 
ently.  I  need  one  pipe,  at  least,  to  soothe 
my  nerves." 

He  relapsed  into  silence,  and,  as  I  saw 
that  he  intended  to  tell  me  of  his  own 
accord,  I  questioned  him  no  further,  but 
sat  waiting  patiently  till  he  found  strength 
to  begin  the  confession  of  his  woes. 

At  length  he  reached  forward,  and  once 
more  raised  the  letter  from  the  table. 

"  Macrorie,  my  boy." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Do  you  see  this  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Whom  do  you  think  it's  from?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Jack,  "  this  letter  is  the 
sequel  to  that  conversation  you  and  I  had, 
which  ended  in  our  row." 

"  The  sequel  ? " 

"  Yes.  You  remember  that  I  left  threat 
ening  that  ISTumber  Three  should  be  mine." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  don't  bother  about  that 
now,"  said  I. 

"  Bother  about  it  ?  Man  alive,  that's  the 
very  thing  that  I  have  to  do  !  The  bother, 
as  you  call  it,  has  just  begun.  This  letter 
is  from  Number  Three." 

"  Number  Three  ?    Marion  ! " 

"  Yes,  Marion,  Miss  O'Halloran,  the  one 
I  swore  should  be  mine.  Ha,  ha  !  "  laughed 
Jack,  wildly  ;  "  a  precious  mess  I've  made 
of  it  I  Mine  ?  By  Jove !  What's  the  end 
of  it  ?  To  her  a  broken  heart — to  me  dis 
honor  and  infamy ! " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  I,  "  doesn't  it  strike 
you  that  your  language  partakes,  to  a  slight 
extent,  of  the  melodramatic  ?  Don't  get 
stagy,  dear  boy." 

"  Stagy  ?  Good  Lord,  Macrorie  !  Wait 
till  you  see  that  letter." 


"  That  letter !  Why,  confound  it,  you 
haven't  seen  it  yourself  yet." 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  No  need  for  me 
to  open  it.  Look  here,  Macrorie,  will  you 
promise  not  to  throw  me  over  after  I  tell 
you  about  this  ?  " 

"  Throw  you  over  ?  " 

"  Yes.    You'll  stick  by  a  fellow  still—" 

"Stick  by  you?  Of  course,  through 
thick  and  thin,  my  boy." 

Jack  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"Well,  old  chap,"  said  he,  "you  see, 
after  I  left  you,  I  was  bent  on  nothing  but 
Marion.  The  idea  of  her  slipping  out  of 
my  hands  altogether  was  intolerable.  I 
was  as  jealous  of  you  as  fury,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  The  widow  and  Miss  Phil 
lips  were  forgotten.  Even  little  Louie  was 
given  up.  So  I  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Ma 
rion." 

Jack  paused,  and  looked  hard  at  me. 

"  Well,"  said  I. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  you  know  her  last  let 
ter  to  me  was  full  of  reproaches  about  the 
widow  and  Miss  Phillips.  She  even  allud 
ed  to  Louie,  though  how  under  heaven  she 
had  heard  about  her  is  more  than  I  can  ima 
gine.  Well,  you  know,  I  determined  to 
write  her  a  letter  that  would  settle  all  these 
difficulties,  and  at  the  same  time  gain  her 
for  myself,  for  good  and  all.  You  see  I  had 
sworn  to  get  her  from  you,  and  I  could 
think  of  nothing  but  that  oath.  So  I 
wrote — but,  oh,  Macrorie,  Macrorie,  why,  in 
Heaven's  name,  did  you  make  that  mistake 
about  Mrs.  O'Halloran,  and  force  that  infer 
nal  oath  out  of  me  ?  Why  did  that  con 
founded  old  blockhead  forget  to  introduce 
her  to  you?  That's  the  cause  of  all  my 
woes.  But  I  won't  bore  you,  old  fellow ; 
I'll  go  on.  So,  you  see,  in  my  determina 
tion  to  get  her,  I  stuck  at  nothing.  First 
of  all,  instead  of  attempting  to  explain 
away  her  reproaches,  I  turned  them  all 


A  LETTEE  ! 


103 


back  upon  her.  I  was  an  infatuated  fool, 
Macrorio,  when  I  wrote  that  letter,  but  I 
was  not  a  villain.  I  wrote  it  with  an  ear 
nest  desire  that  it  should  be  effective. 
Well,  I  told  her  that  she  should  not  blame 
me  for  my  gallantries,  but  herself  for  forcing 
me  to  them.  I  reproached  her  for  refusing 
to  elope  with  me  when  I  offered,  and  told 
her  she  cared  far  more  for  her  father's  ease 
and  comfort  than  she  did  for  my  happiness. 
I  swore  that  I  loved  her  better  than  any 
of  them,  or  all  of  them  put  together,  and 
I'll  be  hanged  if  I  didn't,  Macrorie,  when  I 
wrote  it.  Finally,  I  told  her  there  was  yet 
time  to  save  me,  and,  if  she  had  a  particle 
of  that  love  which  she  professed,  I  implored 
her  now  to  fly  with  me.  I  besought  her  to 
name  some  time  convenient  to  her,  and 
suggested — oh,  Macrorie,  I  suggested — 
swear  at  me — curse  me — do  something  or 
other — Macrorie,  I  suggested  last  night — 
midnight— I  did,  by  Heaven  !  " 

And,  saying  this,  Jack  looked  at  me  for 
some  minutes  in  silence,  with  a  wild  ex 
pression  that  I  had  never  before  seen  on 
his  face. 

"  Last  night,  Macrorie  !  "  he  repeated 
— "  midnight !  Think  of  that.  Why  don't 
you  say  something  ?  " 

"Say?"  said  I.  "  Why,  hang  it,  man, 
what  can  I  say  ?  It's  a  case  beyond  words. 
If  you've  made  such  an  appointment,  and 
broken  it,  you've — well,  there's  nothing  to 
say." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Jack,  in  a  sepulchral 
tone.  "  That's  true.  I  made  the  appoint 
ment,  and,  Macrorie — I  was  not  there." 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  gathered  as  much 
from  the  way  you  go  on  about  it — but 
that's  what  I  should  like  to  understand, 
if  it  isn't  a  secret." 

"  Oh,  no.  I'll  make  no  secret  about  any 
thing  connected  with  this  business.  Well, 
then,  I  put  the  letter  in  the  post-office,  and 


strolled  off  to  call  on  Miss  Phillips.  Will 
you  believe  it,  she  was  *  not  at  home  ? '  At 
that,  I  swear  I  felt  so  savage  that  I  forgot 
all  about  Marion  and  my  proposal.  It  was 
a  desperate  cut.  I  don't  know  any  thing 
that  has  ever  made  me  feel  so  savage.  And 
I  feel  savage  yet.  If  she  had  any  thing 
against  me,  why  couldn't  she  have  seen  me, 
and  had  it  out  with  me,  fair  and  square  ? 
It  cut  deep.  By  Jove !  Well,  then,  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else  but  paying  her  off. 
So  I  organized  a  sleighing-party,  and  took 
out  the  Bertons  and  some  other  girls.  I 
had  Louie,  you  know,  and  we  drove  to 
Montmorency.  Fun,  no  end.  Great  spir 
its.  Louie  teasing  all  the  way.  We  got 
back  so  late  that  I  couldn't  call  on  the  wid 
ow.  That  evening  I  was  at  Chelmsford's 
— a  ball,  you  know — I  was  the  only  one 
of  ours  that  went.  Yesterday,  didn't  call 
on  Miss  Phillips,  but  took  out  Louie.  On 
my  way  I  got  this  letter  from  the  office,  and 
carelessly  stuffed  it  into  my  pocket.  It's 
been  there  ever  since.  I  forgot  all  about 
it.  Last  evening  there  were  a  few  of  us  at 
Berton's,  and  the  time  passed  like  light 
ning.  My  head  was  whirling  with  a  cram 
of  all  sorts  of  things.  There  was  my  anger 
at  Miss  Phillips,  there  was  a  long  story 
Louie  had  to  tell  about  the  widow,  and 
then  there  was  Louie  herself,  who  drove 
every  other  thought  away.  And  so,  Macro 
rie,  Marion  and  my  letter  to  her,  and  the 
letter  in  my  pocket,  and  the  proposed  elope 
ment,  never  once  entered  into  my  head.  I 
swear  they  had  all  passed  out  of  my  mind 
as  completely  as  though  it  had  all  been 
some  confounded  dream." 

Jack  stopped,  and  again  relapsed  into 
moody  silence. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  old  fellow,"  said 
he,  after  a  pause.  "  It's  devilish  hard  to 
put  up  with." 

"  What  is  ?  "  I  asked. 


104 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  This  '  not-at-home '  style  of  thing.  But 
never  mind — I'll  pay  her  up ! " 

Now  here  was  a  specimen  of  rattle-brain- 
ishness — of  levity — and  of  childishness ;  so 
desperate,  that  I  began  to  doubt  whether 
this  absurd  Jack  ought  to  be  regarded  as  a 
responsible  being.  It  seemed  simply  im 
possible  for  him  to  concentrate  his  impul 
sive  mind  on  any  thing.  He  flings  himself 
one  day  furiously  into  an  elopement  scheme 
— the  next  day,  at  a  slight,  he  forgets  all 
about  the  elopement,  and,  in  a  towering 
rage  against  Miss  Phillips,  devotes  himself 
desperately  to  Louie.  And  now  when  the 
elopement  scheme  has  been  brought  be 
fore  him,  even  in  the  midst  of  his  remorse 
— remorse,  too,  which  will  not  allow  him  to 
open  her  letter — the  thought  of  Miss  Phil 
lips  once  more  drives  away  all  recollection 
of  Marion,  even  while  he  has  before  him 
the  unopened  letter  of  that  wronged  and  in 
jured  girl.  Jack's  brain  was  certainly  of  a 
harum-scarum  order,  such  as  is  not  often 
found — he  was  a  creature  of  whim  and  im 
pulse — he  was  a  rattle-brain,  a  scatter-brain 
— formed  to  win  the  love  of  all — both  men 
and  women — formed,  too,  to  fall  into  end 
less  difficulties — formed  also  with  a  native 
buoyancy  of  spirit  which  enabled  him  to 
float  where  others  would  sink.  By  those 
who  knew  him,  he  would  always  be  judged 
lightly — by  those  who  knew  him  not,  he 
would  not  fail  to  be  judged  harshly.  Louie 
knew  him,  and  laughed  at  him — Marion 
knew  him  not,  and  so  she  had  received  a 
stroke  of  anguish.  Jack  was  a  boy — no,  a 
child — or,  better  yet,  a  great  big  baby. 
What  in  the  world  could  I  say  to  him  or 
do  with  him  ?  I  alone  knew  the  fulness  of 
the  agony  which  he  had  inflicted,  and  yet 
I  could  not  judge  him  as  I  would  judge  an 
other  man. 

"  I'll  pay  her  up  !  "  reiterated  Jack,  shak 
ing  his  head  fiercely. 


"  But  before  paying  her  up,  Jack,"  said 
I,  "  wouldn't  it  be  well  to  read  that  letter  ?  " 

Jack  gave  a  sigh. 

"  You  read  it,  Macrorie,"  said  he ;  "I 
know  all  about  it." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  that  is  the  most  aston 
ishing  proposal  that  I  ever  heard  even  from 
you.  To  read  a  letter  like  that!— Why, 
such  a  letter  should  be  sacred." 

Jack's  face  flushed.  He  seized  the  let 
ter,  tore  it  open,  and  read.  The  flush  on 
his  face  deepened.  As  he  finished,  he 
crushed  it  in  his  hand,  and  then  relapsed 
into  his  sombre  fit. 

"  It's  just  as  I  said,  Macrorie,"  said  he. 
"  She  promised  to  meet  me  at  the  time  I 
mentioned.  And  she  was  there.  And  I 
was  not.  And  now  she'll  consider  me  a 
scoundrel." 

In  a  few  moments  Jack  opened  out  the 
crushed  note,  and  read  it  again. 

"After  all,"  said  he,  "she  isn't  so  aw 
fully  affectionate." 

"  Affectionate ! " 

"No — she  seems  afraid,  and  talks  a 
great  deal  too  much  of  her  father,  and  of 
her  anguish  of  soul — yes,  that's  her  ex 
pression — her  anguish  of  soul  in  sacrificing 
him  to  me.  By  Jove ! — sacrifice !  Think 
of  that !  And  she  says  she  only  comes  be 
cause  I  reproach  her  with  being  the  cause 
of  grief— heavens  and  earth !  and  she  says 
that  she  doesn't  expect  any  happiness,  but 
only  remorse.  By  Jove  1  See  here,  Macro 
rie — did  you  ever  in  your  life  imagine  that 
a  woman,  who  loved  a  fellow  well  enough 
to  make  a  runaway  match  with  him,  could 
write  him  in  such  a  way  ?  Why,  hang  it ! 
she  might  have  known  that,  before  our 
honeymoon  was  over,  that  confounded  old 
Irish  scoundrel  of  a  father  of  hers  would 
have  been  after  us,  insisting  on  doing  the 
heavy  father  of  the  comedy,  and  giving  us 
his  blessing  in  the  strongest  of  brogues. 


A  LETTER ! 


105 


And,  what's  more,  he'd  have  been  borrow 
ing  money  of  me,  the  beggar !  Borrowing 
money !  of  me — me — without  a  penny  my 
self  and  head  over  heels  in  debt.  Con 
found  his  impudence ! " 

And  Jack,  who  had  begun  this  with  re 
morse  about  Marion,  ended  with  this  burst 
of  indignation  at  Marion's  father,  conse 
quent  upon  a  purely  imaginary  but  very 
vivid  scene,  in  which  the  latter  was  sup 
posed  to  be  extorting  money  from  him. 
And  he  looked  at  me  with  a  face  that  craved 
sympathy  for  such  unmerited  wrongs,  and 
showed  still  more  plainly  the  baby  that  was 
in  him. 

I  made  no  answer.  His  quotations  from 
Marion's  letter  showed  me  plainly  how  she 
had  been  moved,  and  what  a  struggle  of 
soul  this  resolve  had  cost  her.  Now  I  could 
understand  the  full  meaning  of  that  sombre 
face  which  I  had  seen  in  O'Halloran's  par 
lor,  and  also  could  see  why  it  was  that  she 
had  absented  herself  on  that  last  evening. 
Did  this  letter  change  my  sentiments  about 
her?  How  could  it,  after  what  I  already 
knew  ?  It  only  elevated  her,  for  it  showed 
that  at  such  a  time  her  soul  was  racked  and 
torn  by  the  claims  of  filial  duty.  Under  her 
hallucination,  and  under  the  glamour  which 
Jack  had  thrown  over  her,  she  had  done  a 
deep  wrong — but  I  alone  knew  how  fearful 
was  her  disenchantment,  and  how  keen  was 
the  mental  anguish  that  followed. 

"She'll  never  forgive  me,"  said  Jack, 
after  a  long  silence. 

"  Who  ? "  said  I,  with  some  bitterness, 
which  came  forth  in  spite  of  my  new-found 
conviction  of  Jack's  utter  babyhood. — 
"Who,  Miss  Phillips?"  • 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Jack—"  Marion." 

"  Forgive  you ! "  I  ejaculated. 

"Of  course  not.  It's  bosh  to  use  the 
word  in  such  a  connection.  She'll  hate  and 
scorn  me  till  her  dying  day." 


"  No,  Jack,"  said  I,  somewhat  solemnly, 
"  I  think  from  what  little  I  know  of  her, 
that  if  she  gets  over  this,  she'll  feel  neither 
hate  nor  scorn." 

"  Yes,  she  will,"  said  Jack,  pettishly. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"You  don't  know  her,  my  boy.  She's 
not  the  one  to  forget  this." 

"  No,  she'll  never  forget  it — but  her  feel 
ings  about  you  will  be  different  from  hate 
and  scorn.  She  will  simply  find  that  she 
has  been  under  a  glamour  about  you,  and 
will  think  of  you  with  nothing  but  perfect 
indifference — and  a  feeling  of  wonder  at  her 
own  infatuation." 

Jack  looked  vexed. 

"  To  a  woman  who  don't  know  you,  Jack, 
my  boy— you  become  idealized,  and  heroic ; 
but  to  one  who  does,  you  are*  nothing  of 
the  kind.  So  very  impressible  a  fellow  as 
you  are,  cannot  inspire  a  very  deep  passion. 
When  a  woman  finds  the  fellow  she  admires 
falling  in  love  right  and  left,  she  soon  gets 
over  her  fancy.  If  it  were  some  one  other 
woman  that  had  robbed  her  of  your  affec 
tion,  she  would  be  jealous ;  but  when  she 
knows  that  all  others  are  equally  charming, 
she  will  become  utterly  indifferent." 

"  See  here,  old  boy,  don't  get  to  be  so 
infernally  oracular.  What  the  mischief 
does  a  fellow  like  you  know  about  that 
sort  of  thing  ?  I  consider  your  remarks  as 
a  personal  insult,  and,  if  I  didn't  feel  so  con 
foundedly  cut  up,  I'd  resent  it.  But  as  it 
is,  I  only  feel  bored,  and,  on  the  whole,  I 
should  wish  it  to  be  with  Marion  as  you  say 
it's  going  to  be.  If  I  could  think  it  would 
be  so,  I'd  be  a  deuced  sight  easier  in  my 
mind  about  her.  If  it  weren't  for  my  own 
abominable  conduct,  I'd  feel  glad  that  this 
sort  of  thing  had  been  stopped — only  I 
don't  like  to  think  of  Marion  being  disap 
pointed,  you  know — or  hurt — and  that  sort 
of  thing,  you  know.  The  fact  is,  I  have  no 


106 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


business  to  get  married  just  now — no — not 
even  to  the  angel  Gabriel— and  this  would 
have  been  so  precious  hard  on  poor  little 
Louie." 

"  Louie — why,"  said  I,  "  you  speak  con 
fidently  about  her." 

"  Oh,  never  fear  about  her,"  said  Jack. 

"  She's  able  to  take  care  of  herself.  She 
does  nothing  but  laugh  at  me — no  end." 

"  Nothing  new,  then,  in  that  quarter  ?  "  I 
asked,  feeling  desirous  now  of  turning  away 
from  the  subject  of  Marion,  which  was  un 
dergoing  the  same  treatment  from  Jack 
which  a  fine  and  delicate  watch  would  re 
ceive  at  the  hands  of  a  big  baby.  "No 
fresh  proposals  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jack,  dolefully,  "  nothing  but 
chaff." 

"And  Miss  Phillips?" 

"Affairs  in  that  quarter  are  in  statu 
quo,"  said  Jack.  "  She's  chosen  to  not-at- 
home  me,  and  how  it's  going  to  turn  out  is 
more  than  I  can  tell.  But  I'll  be  even  with 
her  yet.  I'll  pay  her  off!" 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  find  it  so  easy  as 
you  imagine." 

"Won't  I?"  said  Jack,  mysteriously; 
"  you'll  see." 

"  Perhaps  she's  organizing  a  plan  to  pay 
you  off." 

"  That's  more  than  she  can  do." 

"  By-the-way — what  about  the  widow  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Jack,  seriously,  "  whatever 
danger  is  impending  over  me,  may  be  looked 
for  chiefly  in  that  quarter." 

"  Have  you  seen  her  lately  ?  " 

"  Xo — not  since  the  evening  I  took  the 
chaplain  there." 

"  You  must  have  heard  something." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack,  moodily. 

"What?" 

"  Well,  I  heard  from  Louie,  who  keeps 
well  up  in  my  affairs,  you  know.  She  had 
gathered  something  about  the  widow." 


"Such  as  what?" 

"  Well,  you  know — she  wouldn't  tell." 

"Wouldn't  tell?" 

"No  —  wouldn't  tell  —  chaffed  me  —  no 
end,  but  wouldn't  go  into  particulars." 

"  But  could  you  find  out  whether  it  affect 
ed  you  or  not  ? " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  took  that  for  granted. 
That  was  the  point  of  the  whole  joke,  you 
know.  Louie's  chaff  consisted  altogether 
of  allusions  to  some  mysterious  plan  of  the 
widow's,  by  which  she  would  have  full,  am 
ple,  perfect,  complete,  and  entire  vengeance 
on  me." 

"  That's  bad." 

"It  is." 

"A  widow's  a  dangerous  thing." 

"  Too  true,  my  boy,"  said  Jack,  with  a 
sigh ;  "  nobody  knows  that  better  than  I 
do." 

"  I  wonder  you  don't  try  to  disarm  her." 

"  Disarm  her  ?  " 

"  Yes — why  don't  you  call  on  her  ?  " 

"Well,  confound  it,  I  did  call  only  a 
day  or  two  ago,  you  know.  The  last  two 
or  three  days  I've  been  engaged." 

"  Yes,  but  such  an  engagement  will  only 
make  the  widow  more  furious." 

"  But,  confound  it,  man,  it's  been  simply 
impossible  to  do  any  thing  else  than  what  I 
have  been  doing." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Jack,"  said  I,  sol 
emnly,  "the  widow's  your  chief  danger. 
She'll  ruin  you.  There's  only  one  thing  for 
you  to  do,  and  that  is  what  I've  already 
advised  you  to  do,  and  Louie,  too,  for  that 
matter.  You  must  fly." 

"  Oh,  bosh !— how  can  I  ?  " 

"Leave  of  absence  —  sell  out  —  any 
thing." 

Jack  shook  his  head,  and  gave  a  heavy 
sigh. 


A  FKIENDLY  CALL. 


107 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  FRIENDLY  CALL. — PRELIMINARIES  OP  THE 
DUEL  NEATLY  ARRANGED. — A  DAMP  JOUR 
NEY,  AND  DEPRESSED  SPIRITS. — A  SECLUDED 
SPOT. — DIFFICULTIES  WHICH  ATTEND  A  DUEL 
IN  A  CANADIAN  SPRING. — A  MASTERLY  DE 
CISION. — DEBATES  ABOUT  THE  NICETIES  OF 
THE  CODE  OF  HONOR. — WHO  SHALL  HATE 
THE  FIRST  SHOT,  STRUGGLE  FOR  PRECEDENCE. 
— A  VERY  SINGULAR  AND  TERY  OBSTINATE 
DISPUTE. — I  SAVE  O'HALLORAN  FROM  DEATH 
BY  RHEUMATISM. 

BEFORE  the  close  of  the  day  a  gentle 
man  called  on  me  from  O'Halloran,  whom 
I  referred  to  Jack,  and  these  two  made 
arrangements  for  the  duel.  It  was  to  take 
place  in  a  certain  locality,  which  I  do  not 
intend  to  mention,  and  which  was  no  mat 
ter  how  many  miles  out  of  town. 

We  left  at  an  early  hour,  and  the  doctor 
accompanied  us.  Jack  had  sufficient  fore 
sight  to  fill  the  sleigh  with  all  the  refresh 
ments  that  might  be  needed  on  such  an 
occasion.  "We  drove  to  O'Halloran's  house, 
where  we  found  his  sleigh  waiting,  with 
himself  and  a  friend  all  ready  to  start. 
They  led  the  way,  and  we  followed. 

It  was  a  nasty  time,  the  roads  were  ter 
rible.  They  were  neither  one  thing  nor  the 
other.  There  was  nothing  but  a  general 
mixture  of  ice  heaps,  slush,  thawing  snow 
drifts,  bare  ground,  and  soft  mud.  Over 
this  our  progress  was  extremely  slow. 
Added  to  this,  the  weather  was  abomi 
nable.  It  was  warm,  soft,  slimy,  and  muggy. 
The  atmosphere  had  changed  into  a  univer 
sal  drizzle,  and  was  close  and  oppressive. 
At  first  O'Halloran's  face  was  often  turned 
back  to  hail  us  with  some  jovial  remark,  to 
which  we  responded  in  a  similar  manner  ; 
but  after  a  time  silence  settled  on  the  par 


ty,  and  the  closeness,  and  the  damp,  and 
the  slow  progress,  reduced  us  one  and  all  to 
a  general  state  of  sulkiness. 

At  length  we  came  to  a  little  settlement 
consisting  of  a  half-dozen  houses,  one  of 
which  bore  a  sign  on  which  we  read  the 
words  Hotel  de  France.  We  kept  on  with 
out  stopping,  and  O'Halloran  soon  turned 
to  the  right,  into  a  narrow  track  which 
went  into  the  woods.  In  about  half  an  hour 
we  reached  our  destination.  The  sleighs 
drew  up,  and  their  occupants  prepared  for 
business. 

It  was  a  small  cleared  space  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  woods.  The  forest-trees  arose 
all  around,  dim,  gloomy,  and  dripping.  The 
ground  was  dotted  with  decayed  stumps, 
and  covered  with  snow  in  a  state  of  semi- 
liquefaction.  Beneath  all  was  wet ;  around 
all  was  wet ;  and  above  all  was  wet.  The 
place  with  its  surroundings  was  certainly 
the  most  dismal  that  I  had  ever  seen,  and 
the  dank,  dark,  and  dripping  trees  threw  an 
additional  gloom  about  it. 

We  had  left  Quebec  before  seven.  It 
was  after  twelve  when  we  reached  this  place. 

"  Well,  me  boy,"  said  O'Halloran  to  me, 
with  a  gentle  smile,  "  it's  an  onsaisonable 
toime  of  year  for  a  jool,  but  it  can't  be 
helped — an'  it's  a  moighty  uncomfortable 
pleece,  so  it  is." 

"  We  might  have  had  it  out  in  the  road 
in  a  quiet  way,"  said  I,  "  without  the  trou 
ble  of  coming  here." 

"  The  road ! "  exclaimed  O'Halloran. 
"  Be  the  powers,  I'd  have  been  deloighted 
to  have  had  it  in  me  oun  parrulor.  But 
what  can  we  do  ?  Sure  it's  the  barbarous 
legisleetion  of  this  counthry,  that  throis  to 
stoifie  and  raypriss  the  sintimints  of  honor, 
and  the  code  of  chivalry.  Sure  it's  a  bad 
pleece  intoirely.  But  you  ought  to  see  it 
in  the  summer.  It's  the  most  sayquisthered 
localeetee  that  ye  could  wish  to  see." 


108 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


Saying  this,  O'Halloran  turned  to  his 
friend  and  then  to  us. 

"  Gintlemin,"  said  he,  "  allow  me  to  in- 
throjuice  to  ye  me  very  particular  friend, 
Mr.  Murtagh  McGinty." 

Mr.  Murtagh  McGinty  rose  and  bowed, 
while  we  did  the  same,  and  disclosed  the 
form  of  a  tall,  elderly,  and  rather  dilapi 
dated  Irishman. 

All  this  time  we  had  remained  in  our 
sleighs.  The  surrounding  scene  had  im 
pressed  us  all  very  forcibly,  and  there  was 
a  general  disinclination  to  get  out.  The 
expanse  of  snow,  in  its  half-melted  condi 
tion,  was  enough  to  deter  any  reasonable 
being.  To  get  out  was  to  plunge  into  an 
abyss  of  freezing  slush. 

A  long  discussion  followed  as  to  what 
ought  to  be  done.  Jack  suggested  trying 
the  road  ;  McGinty  thought  we  might  drive 
on  farther.  The  doctor  did  not  say  any 
thing.  At  last  O'Halloran  solved  the  diffi 
culty. 

He  proposed  that  we  should  all  remain 
in  the  sleighs,  and  that  we  should  make  a 
circuit  so  as  to  bring  the  backs  of  the 
sleighs  at  the  requisite  distance  from  one 
another. 

It  was  a  briKiant  suggestion;  and  no 
sooner  was  it  made,  than  it  was  adopted 
by  all.  So  the  horses  were  started,  and  the 
sleighs  were  turned  in  the  deep  slush  until 
their  backs  were  presented  to  one  another. 
To  settle  the  exact  distance  was  a  matter 
of  some  difficulty,  and  it  had  to  be  decided 
by  the  seconds.  Jack  and  McGinty  soon 
got  into  an  altercation,  in  which  Jack  ap 
pealed  to  the  light  of  reason,  and  McGinty 
to  a  past  that  was  full  of  experience.  He 
overwhelmed  Jack  with  so  many  precedents 
for  his  view  of  the  case,  that  at  last  the  lat 
ter  was  compelled  to  yield.  Then  we  drove 
forward,  and  then  backward  ;  now  we  were 
too  far  away,  again  we  were  too  near,  and 


there  didn't  appear  to  be  any  prospect  of  a 
settlement. 

At  last  O'Halloran  suggested  that  we 
should  back  the  sleighs  toward  one  another 
till  they  touched,  and  then  his  sleigh  would 
move  forward  twelve  paces. 

"  But  who's  to  pace  them  ?  "  asked  Jack. 

"  Why  the  horse,  of  course,"  said  O'Hal 
loran.  "  Sure  it's  a  regular  pacer  he  is,  and 
bred  up  to  it,  so  he  is." 

To  this  Jack  had  nothing  to  say. 

So  the  horses  backed  and  the  sleighs 
touched  one  another. 

"  Wait  a  minute  McGinty,  me  boy,"  said 
O'Halloran  —  putting  his  hand  on  his 
friend's  arm — "let's  all  take  somethin' 
warrum.  Me  system  is  slowly  conjaylin, 
an'  such  a  steete  of  things  is  moighty  on- 
wholesome." 

This  proposition  was  received  with  the 
same  unanimity  which  had  greeted  O'Hal- 
loran's  other  propositions.  Flasks  were 
brought  out ;  and  some  minutes  were 
passed  in  a  general,  a  convivial,  and  a 
very  affectionate  interchange  of  courtesies. 

"  Me  boy,"  said  O'Halloran  to  me,  affec 
tionately,  "  ye  haven't  had  so  much  ixpay- 
rieence  as  I  have,  so  I'll  teek  the  liberty  to 
give  ye  a  small  bit  of  instherruction.  Whin 
ye  foire,  eem  low !  Moind  that,  now — ye'll 
be  sure  to  hit." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I. 

He  wrung  my  hand  heartily ;  and  then 
motioning  to  McGinty,  his  sleigh  started 
off,  and  advanced  a  few  paces  from  ours,  a 
little  farther  than  the  usual  distance  on 
such  an  occasion.  With  this  he  seemed  to 
be  satisfied,  and,  as  nobody  made  any  objec 
tion,  we  prepared  for  the  business  of  the 
day. 

O'Halloran  and  I  stood  up  in  the  sleighs, 
while  the  seconds  kept  their  seats.  Jack 
and  the  doctor  sat  in  the  front  seat  of  our 
sleigh.  McGinty  sat  beside  O'Halloran  as 


A  FBIENDLY  CALL. 


109 


he  stood  up.  I  stood  in  the  after-seat  of 
our  sleigh. 

"  Shall  I  give  the  word  ?  "  said  Jack. 

"No,"  said  McGinty.  "I've  had  more 
exparience.  I've  been  sicond  at  elivin 
jools — an'  hope  to  assist  at  as  minny 
more." 

"  Shure  we  won't  throuble  ayther  of  ye," 
said  O'Halloran.  "It's  me  that's  fought 
more  jools  than  you've  been  sicond  at.  Me 
friend  Macrorie  and  I'll  manage  it  to  shoot 
oursilves — so  we  will." 

"  Ye  can't  give  the  word  yersilves,"  said 
McGinty. 

"An'  what  do  we  want  of  a  word, 
thin  ?  "  said  O'Halloran. 

"  To  foire  by,"  said  McGinty. 

"  There's  a  peculeeareetee,"  said  O'Hallo 
ran,  loftily,  "hi  the  prisint  occeesion  that 
obveeates  the  nicissitee  of  such  prosayd- 
ings,  and  inables  us  to  dispinse  with  any 
worrd  of  command.  Macrorie,  me  boy — 
frind  of  me  sowl — I  addhriss  you  as  the 
Oirish  addhrissed  the  English  at  Fontenoy : 
1  Fire  first  /'" 

And  saying  this,  O'Halloran  bowed  and 
then  stood  erect,  facing  me  with  a  grave 
countenance. 

"Fire  first?"  said  I.  "Indeed,  Mr. 
O'Halloran,  I'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"Indade  and  you  shall,"  said  he,  with 
a  laugh.  "  I  insist  upon  it ! " 

"Well,  if  it  comes  to  that,"  said  I, 
"  what's  to  prevent  me  from  insisting  that 
you  shall  fire  the  first  shot  ?  " 

"  Shure  and  ye  wouldn't  dayproive  me  of 
the  plisure  of  giving  you  the  prasaydince," 
said  he. 

"  Then,  really,"  said  I, "  you  will  force  me 
to  insist  upon  your  having  the  precedence. 
You're  an  older  man  than  I  am,  and  ought 
to  have  the  first  place.  So,  Mr.  O'Hallo 
ran— fire  first ! " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  with  a  bow,  "  but 


really,  me  boy,  you  must  excuse  me  if  I  in 
sist  upon  it." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  I.  "  If  it  were  any  other 
occasion,  I  would  cheerfully  give  you  the 
precedence,  and  so  I  give  it  to  you  here." 

"  But,  you  see,"  said  O'Halloran,  "  you 
must  considher  me  in  the  loight  of  an  inter- 
tamer.  Ye're  my  guest  to  a  certain  ixtint. 
I  must  give  up  all  the  honors  to  you.  So 
foire  awee,  me  boy,  and  eem  low." 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  really  couldn't  think 
of  it." 

This  friendly  altercation  went  on  for  some 
time,  while  the  others  sat  listening  in  amaze 
ment. 

McGinty  was  the  first  to  interrupt. 

"  It's  in  defoince  of  all  the  joolin'  code," 
said  he,  starting  up.  "  I  must  inter  my 
protest." 

"  So  say  I,"  cried  Jack.  "  I  say  let  the 
usual  word  be  given — or  else  if  one  must 
have  the  first  shot,  let  them  draw  for  it." 

O'Halloran  looked  upon  them  both  with 
a  smile  of  benevolent  pity. 

"  McGinty,"  said  he. 

"  Well." 

"  Ye  know  me  ?  " 

"  Sure  an'  I  do." 

"  And  how  many  jools  I've  fought  ?  " 

"Meself  does." 

"  Am  I  a  choild  at  it  ?  Will  ye  be  koind 
enough  to  mintion  any  one  that  has  any 
cleem  to  considher  himself  the  shupayrior 
of  Phaylim  O'Halloran  in  the  noiceties  and 
the  dilicacies  of  the  jooling  code  ?  Will 
ye  be  so  good  as  to  infarrum  me  what 
there  is  lift  for  me  to  lerrun  ?  " 

At  this  appeal  Mr.  Murtagh  McGinty  sub 
sided  into  silence,  and  sat  down  again,  shak 
ing  his  head. 

Jack  still  insisted  that  the  word  of  com 
mand  should  be  given;  but  O'Halloran 
silenced  him  effectually  by  asking  him  if  he 
had  ever  fought  a  duel. 


110 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  No,"  said  Jack. 

"  Have  ye  ivir  been  second  at  one  be 
fore?" 

"  No,"  said  Jack,  again. 

"  So  this  is  your  first  time  out  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  who  looked  deeply 
humiliated. 

"Will,  thin,"  said  O'Halloran,  loftily, 
"  allow  me  to  infarrum  you,  sir,  that  this 
is  the  thirty-seventh  toime  that  I've  had 
the  plisure  of  taking  part  in  a  jool,  ayther 
as  principal  or  sicond." 

"Whereupon  Jack  was  suppressed. 

In  all  this  the  doctor  took  no  part.  He 
looked  cold,  wet,  uncomfortable,  and  un 
happy. 

And  now  O'Halloran  turned  to  me  again. 

"  Me  boy,"  said  he,  "  if  ye'll  not  grant 
me  this  as  a  feevor,  I'll  cleem  it  as  a 
roight." 

"  A  right  ?  "  said  I. 

"Yis,"  said  O'Halloran,  solemnly,  "a 
roight!" 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  said,  in 
some  perplexity. 

"I'll  expleen.  I'm  undher  a  debt  of 
obleegeetion  to  you  that  I  nivir  can  repee. 
Ye've  seeved  the  loife  of  me  daughter,  me 
choild,  me  Marion — that's  one  debt — then 
ye've  seeved  my  loife,  me  own.  But  for 
you,  I'd  have  been  tarrun  in  payees  by  a 
howling  mob,  so  I  would.  Me  oun  loife  is 
yours.  Jewty,  and  the  cleems  of  grati- 
chood,  and  the  code  of  honor,  all  inspoire 
me  with  a  desoire  to  meek  some  rayturrun 
for  what  ye've  done  for  me. 

"  On  the  other  hand,"  he  continued, 
"ye've  made  a  misteek  of  an  onplisint 
nature  about  Mrs.  O'H.  Ye  didn't  main 
any  harrum;  but  the  dade's  done,  and 
there  it  is.  It  necissitates  a  jool.  We  must 
feece  one  another  to  satisfy  offindid  honor. 
But  at  the  seem  toime,  while  this  jool  is 
thus  necissiteeted  be  the  code  of  honor, 


jewty  and  gratichood  must  be  considhered. 
It's  a  moighty  noice  case,"  he  continued, 
meditatively,  "and  I  don't  think  such  a 
case  ivir  came  within  my  ixpayrience ;  but 
that  ixtinsive  ixpayrience  which  I've  had 
rinders  me  the  best  judge  of  what  may  be 
the  most  shootable  course  on  the  prisint 
occasion.  But  the  ulteemeete  tindincy  of 
all  me  mideeteetions  on  the  subjict  is  this 
— that  I  must  allow  you  to  fire  the  first 
shot." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  if  you  insist  on  looking 
at  it  in  that  light,  and  if  you  persist  in 
feeling  obligation,  that  sense  of  obligation 
ought  to  make  you  yield  to  my  wishes, 
and,  if  I  don't  want  to  fire  first,  you  ought 
not  to  insist  upon  it." 

"  No,  me  boy,"  said  O'Halloran ;  "  that's 
all  oidle  casuisthree  an'  impty  mitaphysics. 
There's  no  process  of  ratiosheeneetion 
that'll  be  iver  eeble  to  overturrun  the  sin- 
timints  of  jewty  and  dilicacy  that  spring 
spontaneous  in  the  brist.  So  blaze  away." 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  insist  on  your  firing 
first." 

"Be  the  powers,  thin!  and  I  insist  on 
your  taking  the  lade." 

"  Pardon  me,  but  you  must." 

"  I'm  inkeepeble  of  such  a  lack  of  com 
mon  cevileetee,"  said  he.    "I  must  still 
insist." 
.  "  And  so  must  I." 

This  singular  and  very  original  alterca 
tion  went  on  for  some  time.  At  last  O'Hal 
loran  took  the  cushions  off  the  seat,  and 
deliberately  sat  down,  facing  me,  with  his 
legs  dangling  over  the  back  of  the  sleigh. 
Seeing  that  our  argument  was  to  be  con 
tinued  for  some  time,  and  that  he  was  thus 
making  himself  comfortable,  I  did  the 
same.  We  thus  sat  facing  one  another. 

The  seconds  here  again  interposed,  but 
were  again  baffled  by  O'Halloran,  who  ex 
plained  the  whole  situation  to  them  in  so 


A  FRIENDLY  CALL. 


Ill 


forcible  a  manner  that  they  did  not  know 
how  to  answer  him.  For  my  part,  I  was 
firm  in  my  resolve,  and  was  not  going  to 
fire  unless  we  both  fired  together.  True, 
I  might  have  fired  in  the  air ;  but  I  knew 
O'Halloran  so  well  by  this  time  that  I  was 
convinced,  if  I  did  such  a  thing,  he  would 
reproach  me  for  it,  and  insist  on  my  firing 
again.  And  in  that  case  it  would  all  have 
to  be  commenced  afresh. 

So  there  we  sat,  with  our  legs  dangling 
over  the  backs  of  our  respective  sleighs, 
facing  one  another,  pistol  in  hand,  and  occa 
sionally  renewing  the  discussion.  He  was 
obstinate,  I  was  equally  so,  and  the  time 
began  to  pass  away,  and  the  situation 
gradually  grew  more  and  more  tedious  to 
our  companions.  Still  they  could  not  say 
any  thing.  It  was  a  punctilio  of  honor 
which  they  could  not  argue  down,  and  be 
hind  all  the  argument  which  might  be  used 
there  arose  the  very  impressive  accumula 
tion  of  O'Halloran's  past  experience  in  the 
field  of  honor.  So  all  that  they  could  do 
was  to  make  the  best  of  the  situation. 

The  situation  !  It  was,  at  best,  a  dismal 
one.  Overhead  was  a  leaden  sky;  under 
neath,  the  thawing  snow,  which  every  hour 
assumed  a  more  watery  appearance ;  in  the 
distance  arose  the  dreary,  gloomy,  melan 
choly  forest-trees ;  while  all  around  was  a 
thin,  fine  drizzle,  which  enveloped  us,  satu 
rating  and  soaking  us  with  watery  vapor. 
We  all  became  limp  and  bedraggled,  in  soul 
as  well  as  body.  The  most  determined  buoy 
ancy  of  spirit  could  not  withstand  the  influ 
ence  of  that  drizzle,  and,  one  by  one,  we  all 
sank  beneath  it. 

But  not  without  a  struggle.  For,  at  first, 
as  O'Halloran  and  I  thus  sat  facing  one  an 
other,  we  did  not  forget  the  ordinary  civili 
ties  of  life,  nor  were  we  satisfied  with  sitting 
and  staring  at  one  another.  On  the  contra 
ry,  we  sought  to  beguile  the  time  with  an 


interchange  of  courtesy  on  both  sides.  I 
took  my  flask  and  drank  to  the  health  of 
O'Halloran.  O'Halloran  responded.  Then 
the  seconds  followed.  Then  O'Halloran 
drank  to  the  health  of  Jack  and  the  doctor. 
Then  I  drank  to  the  health  of  McGinty. 
Then  Jack  and  the  doctor  drank  to  the 
health  of  O'Halloran,  and  McGinty  pledged 
me. 

Two  hours  passed,  and  found  each  of  us 
sitting  there  in  the  same  position.  Jack 
and  the  doctor  made  a  doleful  attempt  at  a 
game  of  euchre,  but  soon  gave  it  up. 
McGinty  sat  refreshing  himself  with  his 
flask,  defying  the  weather,  laughing,  jok 
ing,  and  singing.  Then  we  all  smoked. 
From  time  to  time  the  seconds  would  make 
fresh  efforts  to  shake  our  resolve.  They 
proposed  once  more  that  we  should  toss  up 
for  it,  or  drive  home  now,  and  come  out 
again — in  fact,  any  thing  rather  than  sit 
here  amid  this  cold,  and  drizzle,  and  wet, 
and  dismal  gloom,  and  miserable,  rheumatic 
atmosphere.  But  all  these  proposals  were 
declined,  and  O'Halloran  was  immovable 
in  his  purpose ;  while  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  equally  resolved  that  I  would  not  fire 
first. 

Thus  time  passed,  and  neither  of  us 
would  yield.  At  length,  the  doctor  settled 
himself  down  into  the  bottom  of  the  sleigh, 
and  drew  the  buffalo-robes  over  him.  After 
a  final  expostulation,  accompanied  with  a 
threat  to  drive  off,  Jack  imitated  his  exam 
ple.  McGinty,  seeing  this,  proceeded  to 
make  himself  comfortable  in  the  same 
way. 

The  poor  horses  had  the  worst  time  of 
it.  The  cold  snow  was  up  to  their  knees ; 
and,  as  they  stood  there,  they  moved  uneas 
ily,  tramping  it  down,  till  a  pool  of  icy  water 
lay  beneath,  in  which  they  had  to  stand. 
I  mentioned  this  to  O'Halloran;  but  he 
only  turned  it  against  me,  and  made  use 


112 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


of  it  as  a  fresh  argument  to  shake  my 
decision. 

At  last  I  saw  that  O'Halloran's  face  and 
attitude  had  undergone  a  change.  For  my 
part,  I  was  wet  to  the  skin,  and  chilled  to 
my  very  bones  ;  but  I  was  young  and 
strong,  and  could  stand  even  that.  With 
O'Halloran,  however,  it  was  different.  A 
man  of  sixty  cannot  sit  with  impunity,  in 
active,  and  exposed  to  a  cold,  slimy  driz 
zle,  such  as  this  was,  without  feeling  very 
serious  effects,  and  anticipating  worse. 
This  he  soon  experienced.  I  saw  his 
figure  crouching  down,  and  an  expression 
of  pain  coming  over  his  face.  In  the  midst 
of  his  pain  he  still  maintained  his  punctil 
ious  resolution ;  but  how  much  did  that  cost 
him !  It  was  his  own  fault,  of  course.  It 
was  all  brought  on  by  his  impracticability, 
his  whimsicality,  his  eccentricity,  and  his 
punctiliousness.  Nevertheless,  there  was 
in  him  that  which  excited  my  deepest  com 
miseration.  The  wretchedness  and  the  pain 
of  his  face,  and  the  suffering  which  was  vis 
ible  in  his  attitude,  all  touched  me.  He  sat 
crouched  down,  shivering,  shuddering,  his 
teeth  chattering,  and  presented  a  deplorable 
picture  of  one  who  struggled  vainly  against 
an  overmastering  pain. 

My  resolution  was  shaken  by  this.  I  rose 
to  iny  feet. 

"  Mr.  O'Halloran,"  said  I,  "  pardon  me. 
I  see  that  I  am  subjecting  you  to  very 
great  suffering.  If  you  sit  there  any  lon 
ger,  exposed  to  this  damp,  you'll  never  get 
over  it.  It  would  be  but  poor  courtesy  to 
subject  you  to  that  any  longer.  And  so  I 
don't  see  what  better  I  can  do  than  allow 
you  to  have  your  own  way.  I'll  have  to  give 
up  my  scruples,  I  suppose.  I  can't  sit  here 
any  longer,  and  see  you  suffer.  And  so — 
here  goes ! — I'm  willing  to  fire  as  you  wish." 

At  this  O'Halloran  rose  to  his  feet  with  a 
cry  of  joy. 


"  The  first  shot !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  the  first.  I'll  fire,  if  you 
insist  on  it." 

"  And  that's  just  what  I  do,"  said  he, 
shivering. 

At  this  I  took  aim. 

Bang !  went  the  shot.  I  afterward  found 
that  it  passed  through  his  hat.  « 

O'Halloran  now  raised  his  pistol,  and  lev 
elled  it  at  me.  But  the  pleasure  of  his 
triumph  had  excited  him ;  and,  besides,  he 
was  shivering  from  head  to  foot,  and  his 
teeth  were  chattering.  An  accurate  aim 
was  impossible.  His  hand  could  scarcely 
hold  the  pistol,  and  his  benumbed  finger 
could  scarcely  pull  the  trigger.  He  fired, 
and  the  bullet  passed  through  the  sleeve 
of  my  coat,  and  close  to  the  doctor's  head. 

"  Me  boy,"  he  cried,  flinging  down  the 
pistol,  "  there's  no  ind  to  the  obleegeetions 
you  put  me  under !  I  owe  ye  me  loife  a 
second  toime.  Ye've  seeved  me  from  death 
by  fraizing." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

HOME  AGAIN. — THE  GROWLS  OF  A  CONFIRMED 
GROWLER.  —  HOSPITALITY.  —  THE  WELL- 
KNOWN  ROOM. — VISION  OF  A  LADY. — ALONE 
WITH  MARION. — INTERCHANGE  OF  THOUGHT 
AND  SENTIMENT. — TWO  BEAUTIFUL  WOMEN. 
— AN  EVENING  TO  BE  REMEMBERED.  —  THE 
CONVIVIALITY  OF  O'HALLORAN. — THE  HU 
MORS  OF  O'HALLORAN,  AND  HIS  BACCHIC 
JOY. 

WE  all  hurried  away  from  the  ground  as 
rapidly  as  possible,  and  soon  reached  the 
Hotel  de  France.  It  was  small,  stuffy,  and 
rather  close,  but,  to  people  in  our  half- 
frozen  condition,  the  big  Canadian  stove 
was  a  blessing  beyond  words.  O'Halloran 
seemed  like  an  habitue  of  the  place,  judging 
by  the  way  he  button-holed  the  landlord, 


HOME  AGAIN. 


113 


and  by  the  success  with  which  he  obtained 
"  somethin'  warrum "  for  the  company. 
But  the  Hotel  de  France  was  not  a  place 
where  one  might  linger ;  and  so,  after  wait 
ing  long  enough  to  allow  the  heat  of  the 
Canadian  stove  to  penetrate  us,  aided  by 
the  blended  power  of  "  somethin'  warrum  " 
— and  long  enough  also  to  give  oats  to  the 
horses,  which,  after  all,  must  have  had  the 
worst  of  it — poor  devils  ! — we  started  and 
dragged  on  to  the  town. 

All  this  time  O'Halloran  did  not  appear 
to  have  recognized  Jack  at  all.  On  the 
drive  out  this  might  have  been  accounted 
for,  but,  in  the  Hotel  de  France,  O'Halloran 
had  a  full  and  perfect  inspection  of  him. 
If  he  did  recognize  him,  it  certainly  did  not 
appear  in  his  manner.  He  exchanged 
words  with  Jack  in  a  tone  of  hilarious 
cordiality,  which  did  not  seem  as  though 
he  considered  Jack  an  enemy ;  and  Jack, 
who  never  failed  to  respond  when  greeted 
in  such  a  way,  met  him  more  than  half 
way.  It  was  evident  that  O'Halloran  had 
not  the  smallest  idea  that  Jack  was  that 
identical  British  officer  whom  he  had  ex 
pelled  from  his  house. 

Of  all  the  party  the  doctor  seemed  to 
have  suffered  most;  and,  on  the  journey - 
back,  he  kept  up  one  prolonged  growl  at 
me.  I  was  fated,  he  said,  to  bring  him  bad 
luck,  and  I  would  be  the  death  of  him. 
Once  before  he  had  ridden  all  night  in  the 
storm  for  me ;  and  now  here  was  another 
fool's  errand.  He  seemed  inclined  to  con 
sider  it  as  a  personal  insult,  and  actually 
felt  aggrieved  because  O'Halloran's  bullet 
had  not  shattered  my  arm,  or  penetrated 
my  brain.  Thus  he  alternated  between 
shivering  and  swearing  all  the  way  back. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Macrorie,"   he 

growled,  "  if  you  ever  come  to  ask  my  help 

again  on  any  occasion  whatever,  I'll  take 

it  as  a  personal  insult.    I  wouldn't  have 

8 


come  this  time,  but  I  thought  it  was  to  be 
an  affair  of  honor.  An  affair  of  honor! 
Hot  and  nonsense !  Dragging  a  fellow  over 
the  country  all  day  to  see  a  couple  of  pis 
tols  fired  in  the  air !  What  sort  of  a  thing 
do  you  call  that  ?  And  here  am  I — in  for 
it — yes; — damn  it,  man! — I  say  again — in 
for  it — to  any  extent — rheumatism,  neural 
gia,  gout,  inflammation,  and  fifty  other 
things !  If  I  thought  you'd  have  any  of 
them,  I'd  feel  satisfied.  But  no — you're  all 
right,  and  can  afford  to  sit  there  grinning 
at  the  sufferings  of  a  better  man  than  your 
self." 

From  which  it  will  appear  that  the  doc 
tor  was  savage,  and  I  was  not. 

On  reaching  Quebec,  O'Halloran  gave 
us  all  a  comprehensive  invitation  to  din 
ner. 

But  the  doctor  could  not  accept  it.  He 
had  taken  cold,  and  would  have  to  go  home. 
Jack  could  not  accept  it.  He  had  a  very 
pressing  engagement.  Mr.  McGinty  could 
not  accept  it,  for  he  had  some  important 
business.  So  O'Halloran  pressed  me.  I 
alone  was  disengaged.  I  had  no  rheuma 
tism,  no  pressing  engagement,  no  important 
business.  O'Halloran  was  urgent  in  his  in 
vitation.  Our  duel  seemed  only  to  have 
heightened  and  broadened  his  cordiality. 
I  was  dying  to  see  Marion — or  to  find  out 
how  she  was — so  what  did  I  do  ?  Why, 
I  leaped  at  the  invitation,  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

So  once  more  I  was  ushered  into  that 
comfortable  and  hospitable  back-parlor. 
Since  I  had  been  there  last,  what  events 
had  occurred!  O'Halloran  left  me  for  a 
time,  and  I  was  alone.  I  sat  down,  and 
thought  of  that  night  when  I  had  wan 
dered  forth.  I  thought  of  all  the  wild 
fancies  that  had  filled  my  brain,  as  I  wan 
dered  about  amid  the  storm,  listening  to  the 
howl  of  the  wind,  and  the  deep,  sullen  moan 


114 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE 


of  the  river.  I  recalled  that  strange,  weird 
superstition,  which  had  drawn  me  back 
once  more  to  the  house — and  the  deep 
longing  and  craving  which  had  filled  my 
heart  for  one  glimpse,  however  faint,  of 
my  Lady  of  the  Ice.  I  thought  of  my 
return — of  my  earnest  gaze  around,  of  the 
deep  toll  of  the  midnight  bell,  and  of  the 
sudden  revelation  of  'that  dim,  shadowy 
figure  of  a  veiled  lady,  that  stood  in  faint 
outline  by  the  house,  which  advanced  to 
meet  me  as  I  hurried  over  to  her. 

It  was  quite  dark.  There  were  no  lamps 
lighted,  but  the  coal-fire  flickered  and  threw 
a  ruddy  glow  about  the  apartment ;  at  times 
leaping  up  into  brightness,  and  again  dying 
down  into  dimness  and  obscurity.  O'Hal- 
loran  had  gone  up-stairs,  leaving  me  thus 
alone,  and  I  sat  in  the  deep  arm-chair  with 
my  mind  full  of  these  all-absorbing  fancies ; 
and,  in  the  midst  of  these  fancies,  even 
while  I  was  thinking  of  that  veiled  figure 
which  I  had  seen  under  the  shadow  of  the 
house — even  thus— I  became  aware  of  a 
light  footfall,  and  a  rustling  dress  beside 
me. 

I  turned  my  head  with  a  quick  move 
ment  of  surprise. 

There  was  the  figure  of  a  lady — grace 
ful,  slender,  formed  in  a  mould  of  perfect 
elegance  and  loveliness,  the  dark  drapery 
of  her  dress  descending  till  it  died  away 
among  the  shadows  on  the  floor.  I  stared 
for  a  moment  in  surprise.  Then  the  light 
of  the  fire,  which  had  subsided  for  a  mo 
ment,  leaped  up,  and  flashed  out  upon  the 
exquisite  features,  and  the  dark,  lustrous, 
solemn  eyes  of  Marion. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet,  with  my  heart  beat 
ing  so  fast  that  it  seemed  impossible  to 
breathe.  The  surprise  was  overwhelming. 
I  had  thought  of  her  as  raving  in  brain- 
fever,  descending  deep  down  into  the  abyss 
of  delirium,  and  now — here  she  was — here 


— by  my  side ! — my  Lady  of  the  Ice ! — 
Marion ! 

"  I  heard  that  you  were  here,"  she  said, 
in  a  low,  tremulous  voice,  "  and  I  could  not 
help  coming  down  to  tell  you  how  I — how 
I  bless  you  for — for  that  night." 

She  stopped — and  held  out  her  hand  in 
silence. 

I  seized  it  in  both  of  mine.  For  a  few 
moments  I  could  not  speak.  At  last  I 
burst  forth : 

k  "  Oh,  my  God !  What  bliss  it  is  for  me 
to  see  you! — I've  been  thinking  about  it 
ever  since — I've  been  afraid  that  you  were 
ill — that  you  would  never  get  over  it." 

And  still  holding  her  hand  in  mine,  I 
raised  it  with  tremulous  eagerness,  and 
pressed  it  to  my  lips. 

She  gently  withdrew  it,  but  without  any 
appearance  of  anger. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  I  was  not  ill.  A  wake 
ful  night,  a  very  feverish  excitement — that 
was  all." 

"  I  listened  long  after  you  left,"  said  I, 
in  a  low  voice ;  "  and  all  was  still." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  in  the  same  low  voice. 
"  No  one  heard  me.  I  reached  my  room 
without  any  one  knowing  it.  But  I  had 
much  to  sustain  me.  For  oh,  sir,  I  felt 
deeply,  deeply  grateful  to  find  myself  back 
again,  and  to  know  that  my  folly  had  ended 
so.  To  be  again  in  my  dear  home — with 
my  dear  papa — after  the  anguish  that  I 
had  known ! " 

She  stopped. — It  was  a  subject  that  she 
could  not  speak  on  without  an  emotion 
that  was  visible  in  every  tone.  Her  voice 
was  sad,  and  low,  and  solemn,  and  all  its 
intonations  thrilled  to  the  very  core  of  my 
being.  And  for  me — I  had  nothing  to  say 
— I  thrilled,  my  heart  bounded  at  the  sight 
of  her  face,  and  at  the  tones  of  her  voice ; 
while  within  me  there  was  a  great  and  un 
speakable  joy.  If  I  had  dared  to  say  to  her 


"  And  holding  her.  hand  in  nrvne,  I  raised  it  with    tremulous  eagerness,   and    pressed  it  to  my  lips."— - 

Pasre  114. 


HOME  AGAIN. 


115 


all  that  I  felt  at  that  moment !  But  how 
dare  I  ?  She  had  come  in  the  fulness  of 
her  warm  gratitude  to  thank  me  for  what 
I  had  done.  She  did  not  seem  to  think 
that,  but  for  me,  she  would  not  have  left 
her  home  at  all.  She  only  remembered 
that  I  had  brought  her  back.  It  was 
thus  that  her  generous  nature  revealed  it 
self. 

Now,  while  she  thus  expressed  such  deep 
and  fervent  gratitude,  and  evinced  such  joy 
at  being  again  in  her  home,  and  at  finding 
such  an  ending  to  her  folly,  there  came  to 
me  a  great  and  unequalled  exultation.  For 
by  this  I  understood  that  her  folly  was 
cured — that  her  infatuation  was  over — that 
the  glamour  had  been  dissipated — that  her 
eyes  had  been  opened — and  the  once-adored 
Jack  was  now  an  object  of  indifference. 

"  Have  you  told  any  one  about  it  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  not  a  soul." 

"  He  is  my  most  intimate  friend,"  said  I, 
"but  I  have  kept  this  secret  from  him. 
He  knows  nothing  about  it." 

"  Of  course  he  does  not,"  said  she,  "  how 
was  it  possible  for  you  to  tell  him  ?  This 
is  our  secret." 

I  cannot  tell  the  soft,  sweet,  and  sooth 
ing  consolation  which  penetrated  my  inmost 
soul  at  these  words.  Though  few,  they  had 
a  world  of  meaning.  I  noticed  with  de 
light  the  cool  indifference  with  which  she 
spoke  of  him.  Had  she  expressed  con 
tempt,  I  should  not  have  been  so  well 
pleased.  Perfect  indifference  was  what  I 
wanted,  and  what  I  found.  Then,  again, 
she  acknowledged  me  as  the  only  partner 
in  her  secret,  thus  associating  me  with  her 
self  in  one  memorable  and  impressive  way. 
Nor  yet  did  she  ask  any  questions  as  to 
whom  I  meant.  Her  indifference  to  him 
was  so  great  that  it  did  not  even  excite 
curiosity  as  to  how  I  had  found  out  who 


he  was.  She  was  content  to  take  my  own 
statement  without  any  questions  or  observa 
tions. 

And  there,  as  the  flickering  light  of  the 
coal-fire  sprang  up  and  died  out ;  as  it  threw 
from  time  to  time  the  ruddy  glow  of  its  up 
rising  flames  upon  her,  she  stood  before  me 
—a  vision  of  perfect  loveliness — like  a  god 
dess  to  the  devotee,  which  appears  for  an 
instant  amid  the  glow  of  some  mysterious 
light,  only  to  fade  out  of  sight  a  moment 
after.  The  rare  and  perfect  grace  of  her 
slender  figure,  with  its  dark  drapery,  fading 
into  the  gloom  below — the  fair  outline  of 
her  face — her  sad,  earnest,  and  melancholy 
expression  ;  the  intense  and  solemn  ear 
nestness  of  her  dark,  lustrous  eyes — all 
these  conspired  to  form  a  vision  such  as 
impressed  itself  upon  my  memory  forever. 
This  was  the  full  realization  of  my  eager 
fancy — this  was  what  I  had  so  longed  to 
see.  I  had  formed  my  own  ideal  of  my 
Lady  of  the  Ice— in  private  life — in  the 
parlor — meeting  me  in  the  world  of  socie 
ty.  And  here  before  me  that  ideal  stood. 

Now,  it  gives  a  very  singular  sensation  to 
a  fellow  to  stand  face  to  face  with  the  wom 
an  whom  he  worships  and  adores,  and  to 
whom  he  dares  not  make  known  the  feel 
ings  that  swell  within  him ;  and  still  more 
singular  is  this  sensation,  when  this  wom 
an,  whom  he  adores,  happens  to  be  one 
whom  he  has  carried  in  his  arms  for  an  in 
definite  time ;  and  more  singular  yet  is  it, 
when  she  happens  to  be  one  whom  he  has 
saved  once,  and  once  again,  from  the  most 
cruel  fate ;  by  whose  side  he  has  stood  in 
what  may  have  seemed  the  supreme  mo 
ment  of  mortal  life ;  whom  he  has  sustained 
and  cheered  and  strengthened  in  a  dread 
conflict  with  Death  himself;  singular  enough 
is  the  sensation  that  arises  under  such  cir 
cumstances  as  these,  my  boy — singular,  and 
overwhelming,  and  intolerable  ;  a  sensation 


116 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


•which  paralyzes  the  tongue  and  makes  one 
mute,  yet  still  brings  on  a  resistless  and 
invincible  desire  to  speak  and  make  all 
known ;  and  should  such  a  scene  be  too 
long  continued,  the  probability  is  that  the 
desire  and  the  longing  thus  to  speak  will 
eventually  burst  through  all  restraint,  and 
pour  forth  in  a  volume  of  fierce,  passionate 
eloquence,  that  will  rush  onward,  careless 
of  consequences.  Now,  such  was  my  situ 
ation,  and  such  was  my  sensation,  and  such, 
no  doubt,  would  have  been  the  end  of  it  all, 
had  not  the  scene  been  brought  to  an  end 
by  the  arrival  of  O'Halloran  and  his  wife, 
preceded  by  a  servant  with  lights,  who 
soon  put  the  room  in  a  state  of  illumina 
tion. 

Nora,  as  I  must  still  call  her,  was  some 
what  embarrassed  at  first  meeting  me — for 
she  could  not  forget  our  last  interview; 
but  she  gradually  got  over  it,  and,  as  the 
evening  wore  on,  she  became  her  old,  lively, 
laughing,  original  self.  O'Halloran,  too, 
was  in  his  best  and  most  genial  mood, 
and,  as  I  caught  at  times  the  solemn  glance 
of  the  dark  eyes  of  Marion,  I  found  not  a 
cloud  upon  the  sky  that  overhung  our  fes 
tivities.  Marion,  too,  had  more  to  say  than 
usual.  She  was  no  longer  so  self-absorbed, 
and  so  abstracted,  as  she  once  was.  She 
was  not  playful  and  lively  like  Nora ;  but 
she  was,  at  least,  not  sad ;  she  showed  an 
interest  in  all  that  was  going  on,  and  no 
longer  dwelt  apart  like  a  star. 

It  was  evident  that  Nora  knew  nothing 
at  all  about  the  duel.  That  was  a  secret 
between  O'Halloran  and  me.  It  was  also 
evident  that  she  knew  nothing  about 
Marion's  adventure — that  was  a  secret  be 
tween  Marion  and  me.  There  was  another 
secret,  also,  which  puzzled  me,  and  of 
which  O'Halloran  must,  of  course,  have 
known  as  little  as  I  did,  and  this  was  that 
strange  act  of  Nora's  in  pretending  to  be 


the  Lady  of  the  Ice.  Why  had  she  done 
it  ?  For  what  possible  reason  ?  Why  had 
Marion  allowed  her  to  do  it?  All  this 
was  a  mystery.  I  also  wondered  much 
whether  she  thought  that  I  still  believed  in 
that  pretence  of  hers.  I  thought  she  did, 
and  attributed  to  this  that  embarrassment 
which  she  showed  when  she  first  greeted 
me.  On  this,  as  on  the  former  occasion, 
her  embarrassment  had,  no  doubt,  arisen 
from  the  fact  that  she  was  playing  a  part, 
and  the  consciousness  that  such  a  part  was 
altogether  out  of  her  power  to  maintain. 
Yet,  why  had  she  done  it  ? 

That  evening  I  had  a  better  opportunity 
to  compare  these  two  most  beautiful  wom 
en  ;  for  beautiful  each  most  certainly  was, 
though  in  a  different  way  from  the  other.  I 
had  already  felt  on  a  former  occasion  the 
bewitching  effect  of  Nora's  manner,  and  I 
had  also  felt  to  a  peculiar  and  memorable 
extent  that  spell  which  had  been  cast  upon 
me  by  Marion's  glance.  'Now  I  could  un 
derstand  the  difference  between  them  and 
my  own  feelings.  For  in  witchery,  in  live 
liness,  in  musical  laughter,  in  never-failing 
merriment,  Nora  far  surpassed  all  with  whom 
I  had  ever  met ;  and  for  all  these  reasons 
she  had  in  her  a  rare  power  of  fascination. 
But  Marion  was  solemn,  earnest,  intense; 
and  there  was  that  on  her  face  which  sent 
my  blood  surging  back  to  my  heart,  as  I 
caught  her  glance.  Nora  was  a  woman  to 
laugh  and  chat  with ;  Nora  was  kind  and 
gracious,  and  gentle  too;  Nora  was  amia 
ble  as  well  as  witty ;  charming  in  manner, 
piquant  in  expression,  inimitable  at  an  an 
ecdote,  with  never-failing  resources,  a  first- 
rate  lady-conversationist,  if  I  may  use  so 
formidable  a  word — in  fact,  a  thoroughly 
fascinating  woman  ;  but  Marion  ! — Marion 
was  one,  not  to  laugh  with,  but  to  die  for ; 
Marion  had  a  face  that  haunted  you  ;  a 
glance  that  made  your  heart  leap,  and  your 


HOME  AGAIN. 


117 


nerves  tingle ;  a  voice  whose  deep  intona 
tions  vibrated  through  all  your  being  with 
a  certain  mystic  meaning,  to  follow  you 
after  you  had  left  her,  and  come  up  again 
in  your  thoughts  by  day,  and  your  dreams 
by  night — Marion  !  why  Nora  could  be  sur 
veyed  calmly,  and  all  her  fascinating  power 
analyzed  ;  but  Marion  was  a  power  in  her 
self,  who  bewildered  you  and  defied  anal 
ysis. 

During  that  time  when  Nora  had  been 
confounded  in  my  mind  with  the  Lady  of 
the  Ice,  she  had  indeed  risen  to  the  chief 
place  in  my  thoughts,  though  my  mind  still 
failed  to  identify  her  thoroughly.  I  had 
thought  that  I  loved  her,  but  I  had  not.  It 
was  the  Lady  of  the  Ice  whom  I  loved ; 
and,  when  Marion  had  revealed  herself, 
then  all  was  plain.  After  that  revelation 
Nora  sank  into  nothingness,  and  Marion 
was  all  in  all. 

Oh,  that  evening,  in  that  pleasant  parlor ! 
Shall  I  ever  forget  it ! 

Our  talk  was  on  all  things.  Of  course, 
I  made  no  allusion  to  my  journey  over  the 
ice,  and  Nora  soon  saw  that  she  was  free 
from  any  such  unpleasant  and  embarrass 
ing  remarks.  Freed  from  this  fear,  she 
became  herself  again.  Never  was  she  more 
vivacious,  more  sparkling,  or  more  charm 
ing.  O'Halloran  joined  the  conversation  in 
a  manner  that  showed  the  rarest  resources 
of  wit,  of  fun,  and  of  genial  humor.  Marion, 
as  I  said  before,  did  not  hold  aloof,  but  took 
a  part  which  was  subordinate,  it  is  true, 
yet,  to  me,  far  more  effective;  indeed,  in 
comparably  more  so  than  that  of  the  others. 
Indeed,  I  remember  now  nothing  else  but 
Marion. 

So  the  evening  passed,  and  at  length  the 
ladies  retired.  Nora  bade  me  adieu  with 
her  usual  cordiality,  and  her  kindly  and 
bewitching  glance  ;  while  Marion's  eyes 
threw  upon  me  their  lustrous  glow,  in 


which  there  was  revealed  a  certain  deep 
and  solemn  earnestness,  that  only  intensi 
fied,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible,  the  spell 
which  she  had  thrown  over  my  soul. 

And  then  it  was  "  somethin'  warrum." 
Under  the  effects  of  this,  my  host  passed 
through  several  distinct  and  well-defined 
moods  or  phases. 

First  of  all,  he  was  excessively  friendly 
and  affectionate.  He  alluded  to  our  late 
adventure,  and  expressed  himself  delighted 
with  the  result. 

Then  he  became  confidential,  and  ex 
plained  how  it  was  that  he,  an  old  man, 
happened  to  have  a  young  wife. ' 

Fifteen  years  ago,  he  said,  Nora  had 
been  left  under  his  care  by  her  father. 
She  had  lived  in  England  all  her  life,  where 
she  had  been  educated.  Shortly  after  he 
had  become  her  guardian  he  had  been  com 
pelled  to  fly  to  America,  on  account  of  his 
connection  with  the  Young-Ireland  party, 
of  which  he  was  a  prominent  member.  He 
had  been  one  of  the  most  vigorous  writers  in 
one  of  the  Dublin  papers,  which  was  most 
hostile  to  British  rule,  and  was  therefore  a 
marked  man.  As  he  did  not  care  about 
imprisonment  or  a  voyage  to  Botany  Bay, 
he  had  come  to  America,  bringing  with  him 
his  ward  Nora,  and  his  little  daughter  Mar 
ion,  then  a  child  of  not  more  than  three  or 
four.  By  this  act  he  had  saved  himself 
and  his  property,  which  was  amply  suf 
ficient  for  his  support.  A  few  years  passed 
away,  and  he  found  his  feelings  toward 
Nora  somewhat  different  from  those  of  a 
parent — and  he  also  observed  that  Nora 
looked  upon  him  with  tenderer  feelings  than 
those  of  gratitude. 

"  There's  a  great  difference  intoirely," 
said  he,  "between  us  now.  I've  lost  my 
youth,  but  she's  kept  hers.  But  thin,  at 
that  toiine,  me  boy,  Phaylim  O'Halloran 
was  a  moightily  different  man  from  the  one 


118 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


you  see  before  you.  I  was  not  much  over 
forty — in  me  proime — feeling  as  young  as 
any  of  thim,  an'  it  wasn't  an  onnatural 
thing  that  I  should  win  the  lore  of  ayven 
a  young  gyerrul,  so  it  wasn't.  An'  so  she 
became  me  woife — my  Nora — me  darlin' — 
the  loight  of  me  loife.  And  she's  accom 
panied  me  iver  since  on  all  my  wandher- 
in's  and  phelandherin's,  and  has  made  the 
home  of  the  poor  ixoile  a  paradoise,  so  she 
has." 

All  this  was  very  confidential,  and  such 
a  confidence  would  probably  never  have 
been  given,  had  it  not  been  for  the  effects 
of  "  somethin'  warrum ; "  but  it  showed  me 
several  things  in  the  plainest  manner.  The 
first  was,  that  Nora  must  be  over  thirty, 
at  any  rate,  and  was  therefore  very  much 
older  than  I  had  taken  her  to  be.  Again, 
her  English  accent  and  style  could  be  ac 
counted  for ;  and  finally  the  equally  English 
accent  and  style  of  Marion  could  be  under 
stood  and  accounted  for  on  the  grounds  of 
Nora's  influence.  For  a  child  always  catches 
the  accent  of  its  mother  rather  than  of  its 
father,  and  Nora  must,  for  nearly  fifteen 
years,  have  been  a  sort  of  mother,  more  or 
less,  to  Marion. 

And  now,  why  the  mischief  did  Nora  pre 
tend  to  be  my  Lady  of  the  Ice,  and  in  the 
very  presence  of  Marion  try  to  maintain  a 
part  which  she  could  not  carry  out  ?  And 
why,  if  she  were  such  a  loving  and  faithful 
wife,  did  she  deliberately  deceive  the  con 
fiding  O'Halloran,  and  make  him  believe 
that  she  was  the  one  whom  I  had  saved  ? 
It  was  certainly  not  from  any  want  of 
love  for  him.  It  must  have  been  some 
scheme  of  hers  which  she  had  formed 
in  connection  with  Marion.  But  what 
in  the  world  could  such  a  scheme  have 
been,  and  why  in  the  world  had  she  formed 
it? 

This  was  the  puzzling  question  that  arose 


afresh,  as  O'Halloran  detailed  to  me  very 
confidentially  the  history  of  this  romantic 
experience  in  his  life. 

But  this  was  only  one  of  his  moods,  and 
this  mood  passed  away.  The  romantic  and 
the  confidential  was  succeeded  by  the  liter 
ary  and  the  scholastic,  with  a  dash  of  the 
humorous. 

A  trivial  remark  of  mine,  in  the  course 
of  some  literary  criticisms  of  his,  turned  his 
thoughts  to  the  subject  of  puns.  He  at 
once  plunged  into  the  history  of  puns.  He 
quoted  Aristophanes,  Plautus,  Terence, 
Cicero.  He  brought  forward  illustrations 
from  Shakespeare,  Ben  Jonson,  Milton, 
Puritan  writers,  Congreve,  Cowper,  and 
others,  until  he  concluded  with  Hood, 
who  he  declared  had  first  unfolded  to 
the  human  mind  the  possibility  of  the 
pun. 

From  this  he  passed  off  lightly  and  eas 
ily  into  other  things,  and  finally  glided  into 
the  subject  of  mediaeval  Latin.  This,  he 
asserted,  was  born  and  nourished  under 
peculiar  circumstances,  so  different  from 
classical  Latin  as  to  be  almost  a  new  lan 
guage,  yet  fully  equal  to  it  in  all  the  best 
characteristics  of  a  language.  He  defied 
me  to  find  any  thing  in  classical  poetry  that 
would  compare  with  the  "  Dies  Irse,"  the 
"  Stabat  Mater,"  or  the  "  Rhythm  of  Ber 
nard  de  Morlaix."  As  I  was  and  am  rather 
rusty  in  Latin,  I  did  not  accept  the  chal 
lenge.  Then  he  asserted  that  mediaeval 
Latin  was  so  comprehensive  in  its  scope 
that  it  was  equally  good  for  the  convivial 
and  for  the  solemn,  and  could  speak  equally 
well  the  sentiments  of  fun,  love,  and  reli 
gion.  He  proved  this  by  quotations  from 
the  immortal  Walter  Mapes.  He  over 
whelmed  me,  in  fact,  with  quotations.  I 
caved  in.  I  was  suppressed.  I  became 
extinct.  Finally  he  offered  to  show  me  an 
original  song  of  his  own,  which  he  asserted 


FEOM  APEIL  TO  JUNE. 


119 


was  "  iminintly  shooted  to  the  prisint  occa 
sion." 

As  I  had  no  other  way  of  showing  my 
opinion  of  it,  I  begged  the  paper  from  him, 
and  give  here  a  true  copy  of  it,  verbatim  et 
literatim,  notes  and  all : 

PHELIMII  HALLOEANTI  CABMEN. 

Omnibus  Hibernicis 

Semper  est  ex  more 
Vino  curas  pellere 

Aut  montano  rore ;  * 
Is  qui  nescit  bibere, 

Aut  est  cito  satur, 
Ille,  Pol  I  me  judice 

Parvus  est  potator.t 

Omnibus  Americis 

Semper  est  in  ore 
Tuba,  frondes  habens  ex 

Nicotine  flore ; 
Densis  fumi  nubibus 

Et  vivunt  et  movent, 
Hoc  est  summum  gaudium 

Sic  Te  Bacche  !  fovent.$ 

Omnis  tune  Hibemicus 

Migret  sine  mora, 
Veniat  American! 

Vivat  hac  in  ora, 
Nostram  Baccam  capiat,  § 

Et  montanum  rorem, 
Erit,  Pol !  Americus  1 

In  saecula  saeculorum. 
Amen. 

*  Montano  rore — cf.,  id.  Hib.,  mountain-dew ; 
item,  id.  Scot.,  Hib.,  et  Amer.,  whiskey. 

t  Parvus  potator—cf.,  id.  Amer.,  small  pota- 
ter. 

$  Te  Bacclie—tf.)  id.  Amer.,  Tebaccy,  i.  e., 
tobacco. 

§  Baccam— in  America  vulgo  dici  solet, 
Backy. 

I  Americus— cf.,  id.  Amer.,  a  merry  cuss. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

FROM  APRIL  TO  JUNE. — TEMPORA  MTJTANTUR, 
ET  NOS  MUTAMUR  IN  ILLIS. — STARTLING 
CHANGE  IN  MARION  ! — AND  WHY  ? — JACK 
AND  HIS  WOES. — THE  VENGEANCE  OF  MISS 
PHILLIPS. — LADIES  WHO  REFUSE  TO  ALLOW 
THEIR  HEARTS  TO  BE  BROKEN. — NOBLE  AT 
TITUDE  OF  THE  WIDOW. — CONSOLATIONS  OF 
LOUIE. 

TIME  passed  on,  and  week  succeeded  to 
week,  without  any  occurrence  of  a  decisive 
nature.  April  died  out,  May  passed,  and 
June  came.  Then  all  the  trees  burst  into 
leaf,  and  the  fields  arrayed  themselves  in 
green,  and  all  Nature  gave  one  grand  leap 
from  winter  into  summer. 

During  all  this  time  I  was  a  constant  and 
a  favored  guest  at  O'Halloran's.  I  really 
don't  think  I  ever  went  anywhere  else.  I 
cut  off  all  visits  to  others — that  is,  in  the 
evening — and  went  there  only.  O'Halloran 
always  received  me  with  the  same  cor 
diality,  and  the  ladies  always  met  me  with 
the  same  smile. 

So  many  evenings  in  that  comfortable 
parlor,  so  many  chats  with  the  ladies,  so 
many  interviews  with  my  host,  could  not 
fail  to  bring  us  nearer  together.  Such 
was,  indeed,  the  case  with  O'Halloran  and 
Nora;  but  with  Marion  it  was  different. 
There  was,  indeed,  between  us  the  con 
sciousness  of  a  common  secret,  and  she 
could  not  fail  to  see  in  my  manner  some 
thing  warmer  than  common  —  something 
more  tender  than  friendship,  for  instance 
— something,  in  fact,  which,  without  being 
at  all  spooney,  was  still  expressive  of  very 
delicate  regard.  Yet  there  came  over  her 
something  which  excited  my  fears,  and 
filled  me  with  gloomy  forebodings.  She 
seemed  to  lose  that  cordiality  which  she 


120 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


evinced  on  that  first  evening  when  I  talked 
with  her  alone.  She  never  threw  at  me 
those  deep  glances  which  then  had  made 
my  nerves  tingle.  She  seemed  constrained 
and  reserved.  Only  in  speaking  to  me, 
there  was  always  in  her  voice  an  indefin 
able  sweetness  and  gentleness,  which  made 
her  tones  ring  in  my  memory  afterward 
like  soft  music.  That  showed  me  that 
there  was  no  coldness  on  her  part ;  and  so, 
too,  when  I  did  catch  at  times  the  glance 
of  her  dark  eyes,  there  was  something  in 
them  so  timid,  so  soft,  and  so  shy,  that  I 
could  not  think  of  her  as  wearying  of  me. 
Yet  this  Marion,  timid,  tender,  and  shy ; 
this  Marion,  holding  aloof  under  evident 
constraint,  keeping  apart,  giving  me  no 
opportunity ;  this  Marion,  who  had  now  ex 
changed  the  intensity  and  the  solemnity  of 
former  days  for  something  so  very  different 
— became  a  puzzle  to  me. 

Why  had  she  changed  ?  Was  it  her  re 
turning  regard  for  Jack  ?  Impossible.  His 
name  had  several  times  been  mentioned 
without  causing  any  emotion  in  her.  His 
approaching  marriage  with  Mrs.  Finnimore 
had  once  been  mentioned  by  Nora,  who 
spoke  of  it  as  an  interesting  item  of  news. 
Marion  heard  it  with  indifference.  Or  was 
she  trying  to  withdraw  from  any  further 
intimacy  with  me  ?  Was  she  suspicious 
of  my  intentions,  and  desirous  of  giving  me 
no  hope  ?  Was  she  trying  to  repel  me  at 
the  outset  ?  It  seemed  so.  And  so  a  great 
fear  gradually  arose  in  my  heart. 

So  went  the  time  away,  and  toward  the 
latter  part  of  May  and  the  beginning  of 
June  I  used  to  take  the  ladies  out  driving, 
hoping  that  these  new  circumstances  might 
elicit  some  show  of  cordiality  in  Marion. 
But  this  proved  a  complete  failure;  for, 
the  closer  we  were  thrown  together,  the 
greater  seemed  her  shy  reticence,  her  timid 
reserve,  and  her  soft  and  gentle  yet  per 


sistent  manner  of  keeping  me  at  a  dis 
tance. 

And  so,  here  was  I.  I  had  found  my 
Lady  of  the  Ice  ;  yet  no  sooner  had  I  found 
her  than  she  withdrew  herself  to  an  inac 
cessible  height,  and  seemed  now  as  far  out 
of  my  reach  as  on  that  eventful  morning 
when  I  sought  her  at  the  hut  at  Montmo- 
rency,  and  found  that  she  had  fled. 

Spending  so  much  time  as  I  did  at  O'Hal- 
loran's,  I  did  not  see  so  much  of  Jack  as 
before ;  yet  he  used  to  drop  in  from  time 
to  time  in  the  morning,  and  pour  forth  the 
sorrows  of  his  soul. 

Marion's  name  he  never  mentioned. 
Either  he  had  forgotten  all  about  her,  which 
was  not  improbable;  or  the  subject was.too 
painful  a  one  for  him  to  touch  upon,  which 
also  was  not  improbable ;  or,  finally,  her 
affair  became  overshadowed  by  other  and 
weightier  matters,  which  was  in  the  highest 
degree  natural. 

His  first  great  trouble  arose  from  the  ac 
tion  of  Miss  Phillips. 

He  had  gone  there  a  second  time  to  call, 
and  had  again  been  told  that  she  was  not 
at  home.  He  turned  away  vowing  ven 
geance,  but  in  the  following  morning  found 
that  vengeance  was  out  of  the  question ; 
for  he  received  a  parcel,  containing  all  the 
letters  which  he  had  ever  written  to  Miss 
Phillips,  and  all  the  presents  that  he  had 
ever  given  her,  with  a  polite  note,  request 
ing  the  return  of  her  letters.  This  was  a 
blow  that  he  was  not  prepared  for.  It 
struck  home.  However,  there  was  no  help 
for  it — so  he  returned  her  letters,  and  then 
came  to  me  with  all  kinds  of  vague  threats. 

Such  threats,  however,  could  not  be  car 
ried  out ;  and  as  for  Miss  Phillips,  she  was 
quite  beyond  the  reach  of  them.  She  ac 
cepted  the  situation  wonderfully  well.  She 
did  more — she  triumphed  over  it.  In  a 
short  time  she  had  others  at  her  feet,  prom- 


FKOM  APEIL  TO  JUNE. 


121 


inent  among  whom  was  Colonel  Blount — a 
dashing  officer,  a  Victoria  Cross,  and  a 
noble  fellow  in  every  respect.  Thus  Miss 
Phillips  revenged  herself  on  Jack.  She 
tossed  him  aside  coolly  and  contemptuously, 
and  replaced  him  with  a  man  whom  Jack 
himself  felt  to  be  his  superior.  And  all  this 
was  gall  and  wormwood  to  Jack.  And,  what 
was  more,  he  was  devoured  with  jealousy. 

The  worst  thing  about  it  all,  however,  was 
the  crushing  blow  which  it  gave  to  his  self- 
love.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  he  was 
very  much  taken  down,  on  one  occasion, 
when  I  informed  him  incidentally  that 
Marion  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  was 
said  to  be  in  better  health  than  she  had 
known  for  years.  Miss  Phillips's  policy, 
however,  was  a  severer  blow.  For  it  had 
all  along  been  his  firm  belief  that  his 
tangled  love-affairs  could  not  end  without 
a  broken  heart,  or  melancholy  madness,  or 
life-long  sorrow,  or  even  death,  to  one  or 
more  of  his  victims.  To  save  them  from 
such  a  fate,  he  talked  of  suicide.  All  this 
was  highly  romantic,  fearfully  melodra 
matic,  and  even  mysteriously  tragic.  But, 
unfortunately  for  Jack's  self-conceit,  the 
event  did  not  coincide  with  these  highly- 
colored  views.  The  ladies  refused  to  break 
their  hearts.  Those  organs,  however  sus 
ceptible  and  tender  they  may  have  been, 
beat  bravely  on.  Number  Three  viewed  him 
with  indifference.  Miss  Phillips  coolly  and 
contemptuously  cast  him  off,  and  at  once 
found  new  consolation  in  the  devotion  of 
another.  Broken  hearts  !  Melancholy  mad 
ness  !  Life-long  sorrow  !  Not  they,  indeed. 
They  didn't  think  of  him.  They  didn't  con 
fide  their  wrongs  to  any  avenger.  No  broth 
er  or  other  male  relative  sent  Jack  a  chal 
lenge.  He  was  simply  dropped.  He  was 
forgotten.  Now  any  one  may  see  the 
chagrin  which  such  humiliation  must  have 
caused  to  one  of  Jack's  temper. 


And  how  did  the  widow  treat  Jack  all 
this  time  ?  The  widow !  She  was  sublime  ; 
for  she  showed  at  once  the  fostering  care 
of  a  mother,  and  the  forgiveness  of  a  saint. 
Forgiveness  ?  That's  not  the  word.  I  am 
wrong.  She  showed  nothing  of  the  kind. 
On  the  contrary,  she  evinced  no  conscious 
ness  whatever  that  any  offence  had  been 
committed.  If  Jack  had  deceived  her  as  to 
Miss  Phillips,  she  showed  no  knowledge  of 
such  deceit ;  if  he  had  formed  other  entan 
glements  of  which  he  had  never  told  her, 
she  never  let  him  know  whether  she  had 
found  out  or  not ;  if  Jack  went  every  even 
ing  to  console  himself  with  Louie,  any  dis 
covery  which  the  widow  may  have  made  of 
so  very  interesting  yet  transparent  a  fact 
was  never  alluded  to  by  her.  Such  was  the 
lofty  ground  which  the  widow  took  in  ref 
erence  to  Jack  and  his  affairs,  and  such  was 
the  manner  with  which  she  viewed  him  and 
them — a  manner  elevated,  serene,  calm,  un 
troubled — a  manner  always  the  same.  For 
she  seemed  above  all  care  for  such  things. 
Too  high-minded,  you  know.  Too  lofty  in 
soul,  my  boy,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
Like  some  tall  cliff  that  rears  its  awful  form, 
swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  cleaves 
the  storm,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Such  was 
the  demeanor  of  the  widow  Finnimore. 

She  was  so  kind  and  cordial  that  Jack 
had  not  a  word  to  say.  After  a  few  days  of 
absence,  during  which  he  had  not  dared  to 
call  on  her,  he  had  ventured  back,  and  was 
greeted  with  the  gentlest  of  reproaches  for 
his  neglect,  and  was  treated  with  an  elabo 
ration  of  kindness  that  was  positively  crush 
ing.  So  he  had  to  go,  and  to  keep  going. 
She  would  not  suffer  a  single  cloud  to  arise 
between  them.  An  unvarying  sweetness 
diffused  itself  evermore  over  her  very  pret 
ty  face,  and  through  all  the  tones  of  her 
very  musical  voice.  And  so  Jack  was  held 
fast,  bound  by  invisible  yet  infrangible 


122 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


bonds,  and  his  soul  was  kept  in  complete- 
subjection  by  the  superior  ascendency  of 
the  widow. 

So  he  went  to  see  her  every  day.  About 
six,  generally  dined  there.  Always  left  at 
eight,  or  just  as  dinner  was  over.  Not 
much  time  for  tenderness,  of  course.  Jack 
didn't  feel  particularly  inclined  for  that  sort 
of  thing.  The  widow,  on  the  other  hand, 
did  not  lay  any  stress  on  that,  nor  did  she 
allow  herself  to  suspect  that  Jack  was  alto 
gether  too  cold  for  a  lover.  Not  she.  Beam 
ing,  my  boy.  All  smiles,  you  know.  Al 
ways  the  same.  Glad  to  see  him  when  he 
came — a  pleasant  smile  of  adieu  at  parting. 
In  fact,  altogether  a  model  fiancee,  such  as 
is  not  often  met  with  in  this  vale  of  tears. 

Now  always,  after  leaving  this  good,  kind, 
smiling,  cordial,  pretty,  clever,  fascinating, 
serene,  accomplished,  hospitable,  and  alto 
gether  unparalleled  widow,  Jack  would 
calmly,  quietly,  and  deliberately  go  over 
to  the  Bertons',  and  stay  there  as  long  as 
he  could.  What  for  ?  Was  he  not  merely 
heaping  up  sorrow  for  himself  in  continuing 
so  ardently  this  Platonic  attachment  ?  For 
Louie  there  was  no  danger.  According  to 
Jack,  she  still  kept  up  her  teasing,  quizzing, 
and  laughing  mood.  Jack's  break-up  with 
Miss  Phillips  was  a  joke.  He  had  confided 
to  her  that  he  had  also  broken  oif  with 
Number  Three ;  and,  though  she  could  not 
find  out  the  cause,  this  became  another 
joke.  Finally,  his  present  attitude  with 
regard  to  the  widow  was  viewed  by  her  as 
the  best  joke  of  all.  She  assured  him  that 
the  widow  was  to  be  his  fate,  and  that  she 
had  driven  the  others  from  the  field,  so  as 
to  have  him  exclusively  to  herself. 

And  thus  Jack  alternated  and  vibrated 
between  the  widow  and  Louie,  and  all  his 
entanglements  were  now  reduced  to  these 
two. 

Such  is   a  full,  frank,  fair,  free,  ample, 


lucid,  and  luminous  explanation  of  the 
progress  of  affairs,  which  explanation  was 
necessary  in  order  to  make  the  reader  fully 
understand  the  full  meaning  of  what  fol 
lows. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

JACK'S  TRIBULATIONS. — THEY  RISE  UP  IN  THE 
VERY  FACE  OF  THE  MOST  ASTONISHING  GOOD 
FORTUNES. — FOR,  WHAT  IS  LIKE  A  LEGA 
CY  ? — AND  THIS  COMES  TO  JACK  ! — SEVEN 
THOUSAND  POUNDS  STERLING  PER  ANNUM  ! — 

BUT  WHAT'S  THE  USE  OF  IT  ALL  ? — JACK 

COMES  TO  GRIEF  ! — WOE  !  SORROW  !  DE 
SPAIR  !  ALL  THE  WIDOW  ! — INFATUATION. — 
A  MAD  PROPOSAL. — A  MADMAN,  A  LUNATIC, 
AN  IDIOT,  A  MARCH  HARE,  AND  A  HATTER, 
ALL  ROLLED  INTO  ONE,  AND  THAT  ONE  THE 
LUCKY  YET  UNFORTUNATE  JACK. 

JACK  had  been  falling  off  more  and 
more.  I  was  taken  up  with  the  O'Hallo- 
rans;  he,  with  those  two  points  between 
which  he  oscillated  like  a  pendulum ;  and 
our  intercourse  diminished,  until  at  length 
days  would  intervene  without  a  meeting  be 
tween  us. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  June. 

I  had  not  seen  Jack  for  more  than  a 
week. 

Suddenly,  I  was  reminded  of  him  by  a 
startling  rumor  that  reached  my  ears  after 
every  soul  in  the  garrison  and  in  the  city 
had  heard  it.  It  referred  to  Jack.  It  was 
nothing  about  the  widow,  nothing  about 
Louie,  nothing  about  Marion,  nothing  about 
Miss  Phillips. 

It  did  not  refer  to  duns. 

He  had  not  been  nabbed  by  the  sheriff. 

He  had  not  put  an  end  to  himself. 

In  short,  the  news  was,  that  an  uncle  of 
his  had  died,  and  left  him  a  fortune  of  un- 


JACK'S  TRIBULATIONS. 


123 


known  proportions.  Omne  ignotum  pro 
mirifico,  of  course ;  and  so  up  went  Jack's 
fortune  to  twenty  thousand  a  year.  Jack 
had  told  me  about  that  uncle,  and  I  had 
reason  to  know  that  it  was  at  least  six  or 
seven  thousand;  and,  let  me  tell  you,  six 
or  seven  thousand  pounds  per  annum  isn't 
to  be  laughed  at. 

So  here  was  Jack — raised  up  in  a  moment 
— far  above  the  dull  level  of  debt,  and  duns, 
and  despair ;  raised  to  an  upper  and,  I  trust, 
a  better  world,  where  swarms  of  duns  can 
never  arise,  and  bailiffs  never  come  ;  raised, 
my  boy,  to  a  region  of  serene  delight, 
where,  like  the  gods  of  Epicurus,  he  might 
survey  from  his  cloudless  calm  the  darkness 
and  the  gloom  of  the  lower  world.  A  for 
tune,  by  Jove !  Seven  thousand  pounds 
sterling  a  year  !  Hard  cash  !  Why,  the 
thing  fairly  took  my  breath  away.  I  sat 
down  to  grapple  with  the  stupendous 
thought.  Aha !  where  would  the  duns  be 
now  ?  "What  wculd  those  miserable  devils 
say  now,  that  had  been  badgering  him  with 
lawyers'  letters  ?  Wouldn't  they  all  haul 
off?  Methought  they  would.  Methought! 
why,  meknew  they  would — mefancied  how 
they  would  fawn,  and  cringe,  and  apologize, 
and  explain,  and  lick  the  dust,  and  offer  to 
polish  his  noble  boots,  and  present  them 
selves  for  the  honor  of  being  kicked  by 
him.  Nothing  is  more  degrading  to  our 
common  humanity  than  the  attitude  of  a 
creditor  toward  a  poor  debtor — except  the 
attitude  of  that  same  creditor,  when  he 
learns  that  his  debtor  has  suddenly  be 
come  rich. 

Having  finally  succeeded  in  mastering 
this  great  idea,  I  hurried  off  to  Jack  to 
congratulate  him. 

I  found  him  in  his  room.  He  was  lying 
down,  looking  very  blue,  very  dismal,  and 
utterly  used  up.  At  first,  I  did  not  notice 
this,  but  burst  forth  in  a  torrent  of  congra 


tulations,  shaking  his  hand  most  violently. 
He  raised  himself  slightly  from  the  sofa  on 
which  he  was  reclining,  and  his  languid 
hand  did  not  return  my  warm  grasp,  nor 
did  his  face  exhibit  the  slightest  interest 
in  what  I  said.  Seeing  this,  I  stopped 
short  suddenly. 

"  Hallo,  old  boy  1 "  I  cried.  "  What's  the 
matter  ?  Any  thing  happened  ?  Isn't  it 
true,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Jack,  dolefully,  leaning 
forward,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  and 
looking  at  the  floor. 

"Well,  you  don't  seem  very  jubilant 
about  it.  Any  thing  the  matter?  Why, 
man,  if  you  were  dying,  I  should  think 
you'd  rise  up  at  the  idea  of  seven  thousand 
a  year." 

Jack  said  nothing. 

At  such  a  check  as  this  to  my  enthusi 
astic  sympathy,  I  sat  in  silence  for  a  time, 
and  looked  at  him.  His  elbows  were  on 
his  knees,  his  face  was  pale,  his  hair  in 
disorder,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
wall  opposite  with  a  vacant  and  abstracted 
stare.  There  waj  a  haggard  look  about 
his  handsome  face,  and  a  careworn  expres 
sion  on  his  broad  brow,  which  excited  with 
in  me  the  deepest  sympathy  and  sadness. 
Something  had  happened — something  of 
no  common  kind.  This  was  a  something 
which  was  far,  very  far,  more  serious  than 
those  old  troubles  which  had  oppressed 
him.  This  was  something  far  different 
from  those  old  perplexities — the  entangle 
ments  with  three  engagements.  Amid  all 
those  he  was  nothing  but  a  big,  blunder 
ing  baby ;  but  now  he  seemed  like  a  sor 
row-stricken  man.  Where  was  the  light 
of  his  eyes,  the  glory  of  his  brow,  the  mu 
sic  of  his  voice  ?  Where  was  that  glow 
that  once  used  to  pervade  his  fresh,  open, 
sunny  face  ?  Where  !  It  was  Jack — but 
not  the  Jack  of  old.  It  was  Jack — but 


124 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  Alas  !  how  changed  from  him 
That  life  of  pleasure,  and  that  soul  of  whim  !  " 

Or,  as  another  poet  has  it  — 

'"Twas  Jack—  hut  living  Jack  no  more  !  " 

"  Jack,"  said  I,  after  a  long  and  solemn 
silence,  in  which  I  had  tried  in  vain  to  con 
jecture  what  might  possibly  be  the  cause 
of  this  —  "  Jack,  dear  boy,  you  and  I  have 
had  confidences  together,  a  little  out  of  the 
ordinary  line.  I  came  here  to  congratulate 
you^about  your  fortune  ;  but  I  find  you  ut 
terly  cut  up  about  something.  Will  you 
let  me  ask  you  what  it  is  ?  I  don't  ask  out 
of  idle  curiosity,  but  out  of  sympathy.  At 
the  same  time,  if  it's  any  thing  of  a  private 
nature,  I  beg  pardon  for  asking  you  to  tell 
it." 

Jack  looked  up,  and  a  faint  flicker  of  a 
smile  passed  over  his  face. 

"  Oh,  all  right,  old  boy  !  "  he  said.  "  I'm 
'hit  hard  —  all  up  —  and  that  sort  of  thing  — 
hit  hard  —  yes,  damned  hard  —  serves  me 
right,  too,  you  know,  for  being  such  an  in 
fernal  fool." 

He  frowned,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  old  chap,"  said  he,  ris 
ing  from  the  sofa  ;  "  I'll  get  something  to 
sustain  nature,  and  then  I'll  answer  your 
question.  I'm  glad  you've  come.  I  don't 
know  but  that  it'll  do  me  good  to  tell  it  all 
to  somebody.  It's  hard  to  stay  here  in  my 
den,  fretting  my  heart  out  —  damned  hard  ! 
—  but  wait  a  minute,  and  I'll  explain." 

Saying  this,  he  walked  over  to  the  side 
board. 

"  Will  you  take  any  thing  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  no,"  said  I  ;  "a  pipe  is  all  I 
And  I  proceeded  to  fill  and  light 


one. 


Thereupon  Jack  poured  out  a  tumbler 
of  raw  brandy,  which  he  swallowed.  Then 
he  came  back  to  the  sofa.  A  flush  came 


to  his  face,  and  his  eyes  looked  brighter ; 
but  he  had  still  the  same  haggard  aspect. 

"  I'm  in  for  it,  Macrorie,"  said  he  at  last, 
gloomily. 

"In  for  it?" 

"  Yes — an  infernal  scrape." 

"What?" 

"  The  widow — damn  her  ! "  and  he  struck 
his  clinched  fist  against  the  head  of  the 
sofa. 

"  In  for  it  ?     The  widow  ?  "  I  repeated. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Jack  drew  a  long  breath,  and  regarded 
me  with  a  fixed  stare. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Jack,  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  me  with  an  awful  look,  "  I  mean  this 
— that  I  have  to  marry  that  woman." 

"  Marry  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  dashing  his  fist 
upon  the  table  savagely,  "marry  her! 
There  you  have  it.  I'm  in  for  it.  No 
escape.  Escape— ha !  ha!  Nabbed,  sir. 
All  up  !  Married  and  done  for — yes,  eter 
nally  done  for ! " 

He  jerked  these  words  out  in  a  fierce, 
feverish  way;  and  then,  flinging  himself 
back,  he  clasped  his  knees  with  his  hands, 
and  sat  regarding  me  with  stern  eyes  and 
frowning  brow. 

This  mood  of  Jack's  was  a  singular  one. 
He  was  evidently  undergoing  great  distress 
of  mind.  Under  such  circumstances  as 
these,  no  levity  could  be  thought  of.  Had 
he  not  been  so  desperate,  I  might  have 
ventured  upon  a  jest  about  the  widow 
driving  the  others  from  the  field  and  com 
ing  forth  victorious ;  but,  as  it  was,  there 
was  no  room  for  jest.  So  I  simply  sat  in 
silence,  and  returned  his  gaze. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  he  at  last,  impatiently. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Haven't  you  got  any  thing  to  say  about 
that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say.     Your  man- 


JACK'S  TRIBULATIONS. 


125 


uer  of  telling  this  takes  me  more  by  sur 
prise  than  the  thing  itself.  After  all,  you 
must  have  looked  forward  to  this." 

"  Looked  forward  ?  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
did,  except  in  a  very  general  way.  Damn 
it,  man !  I  thought  she'd  have  a  little  pity 
on  a  fellow,  and  allow  me  some  liberty.  I 
didn't  look  forward  to  being  shut  up  at 
once." 

"  At  once  ?  You  speak  as  though  the 
event  were  near." 

"  Near  ?  I  should  think  it  was.  What 
do  you  say  to  next  week  ?  Is  that  near  or 
not  ?  Near  ?  I  should  rather  think  so." 

"  Next  week  ?  Good  Lord !  Jack,  do  you 
really  mean  it  ?  Nonsense ! " 

"  Next  week — yes — and  worse — on  Tues 
day — not  the  end,  but  the  beginning,  of  the 
week — Tuesday,  the  20th  of  June." 

"  Tuesday,  the  20th  of  June  !  "  I  repeat 
ed,  in  amazement. 

"  Yes,  Tuesday,  the  20th  of  June,"  said 
Jack. 

"  Heavens,  man !  what  have  you  been  up 
to  ?  How  did  it  happen  ?  Why  did  you  do 
it?  Couldn't  you  have  postponed  it?  It 
takes  two  to  make  an  agreement.  What 
do  you  mean  by  lamenting  over  it  now  ? 
Why  didn't  you  get  up  excuses  ?  Haven't 
you  to  go  home  to  see  about  your  estates  ? 
Why,  in  Heaven's  name,  did  you  let  it  be 
all  arranged  in  this  way,  if  you  didn't  want 
it  to  be  ?  " 

Jack  looked  at  me  for  a  few  moments 
very  earnestly. 

"  Why  didn't  I  ? "  said  he,  at  length ; 
"  simply  because  I  happen  to  be  an  un 
mitigated,  uncontrollable,  incorrigible,  illi 
mitable,  and  inconceivable  ASS  !  That's  the 
reason  why,  if  you  must  know." 

Jack's  very  forcible  way  of  putting  this 
statement  afforded  me  no  chance  whatever 
of  denying  it  or  combating  it.  His  deter 
mination  to  be  an  ass  was  so  vehement, 


that  remonstrance  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  I  therefore  accepted  it  as  a  probable 
truth. 

For  some  time  I  remained  silent,  looking 
at  Jack,  and  puffing  solemnly  at  my  pipe. 
In  a  situation  of  this  kind,  or  in  fact  in  any 
situation  where  one  is  expected  to  say 
something,  but  doesn't  happen  to  have  any 
thing  in  particular  to  say,  there's  nothing  in 
the  world  like  a  pipe.  For  the  human  face, 
when  it  is  graced  by  a  pipe,  and  when  the 
pipe  is  being  puffed,  assumes,  somehow,  a 
rare  and  wonderful  expression  of  profound 
and  solemn  thought.  Besides,  the  pres 
ence  of  the  pipe  in  the  mouth  is  a  check 
to  any  overhasty  remark.  Yain  and  empty 
words  are  thus  repressed,  and  thought, 
divine  thought,  reigns  supreme.  And  so 
as  I  sat  in  silence  before  Jack,  if  I  didn't 
have  any  profound  thoughts  in  my  mind, 
I  at  least  had  the  appearance  of  it,  which 
after  all  served  my  purpose  quite  as  well. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you  all  about  it, 
old  chap,"  said  Jack,  at  last,  who  had  by 
this  time"  passed  into  a  better  frame  of 
mind,  and  looked  more  like  his  old  self. 
"  You've  known  all  about  the  row,  all 
along,  and  you'll  have  to  be  in  at  the 
death,  so  I'll  tell  you  now.  You'll  have  to 
help  me  through — you'll  be  my  best  man, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know — and 
this  is  the  best  time  for  making  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  you  know :  so  here  goes." 

Upon  this  Jack  drew  a  long  breath,  and 
then  began : 

"  I've  told  you  already,"  he  said,  "  how 
abominably  kind  she  was.  You  know  when 
I  called  on  her  after  the  row  with  Miss 
Phillips,  how  sweet  she  was,  and  all  that, 
and  how  I  settled  down  on  the  old  terms. 
I  hadn't  the  heart  to  get  up  a  row  with 
her,  and  hadn't  even  the  idea  of  such  a 
thing.  When  a  lady  is  civil,  and  kind,  and 
all  that,  what  can  a  fellow  do  ?  So  you  see 


126 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


I  went  there  as  regular  as  clock-work,  and 
dined,  and  then  left.  Sometimes  I  went  at 
six,  and  stayed  till  eight ;  sometimes  at  five, 
and  stayed  till  nine.  But  that  was  very 
seldom.  Sometimes,  you  know,  she'd  get 
me  talking,  and  somehow  the  time  would 
fly,  and  it  would  be  ever  so  late  before  I 
could  get  away.  I'm  always  an  ass,  and 
so  I  felt  tickled,  no  end,  at  her  unfailing 
kindness  to  me,  and  took  it  all  as  so  much 
incense,  and  all  that — I  was  her  deity,  you 
know — snuffing  up  incense — receiving  her 
devotion — feeling  half  sorry  that  I  couldn't 
quite  reciprocate,  and  making  an  infernal 
fool  of  myself  generally. 

"  Now  you  know  I'm  such  a  confounded 
ass  that  her  very  reticence  about  my  other 
affairs,  and  her  quiet  way  of  taking  them, 
rather  piqued  me ;  and  several  times  I  threw 
out  hints  about  them,  to  see  what  she  would 
say.  At  such  times  she  would  smile  in  a 
knowing  way,  but  say  nothing.  At  last 
there  was  one  evening — it  was  a  little  over 
a  week  ago — I  went  there,  and  found  her 
more  cordial  than  ever,  more  amusing,  more 
fascinating — kinder,  you  know,  and  all  that. 
There  was  no  end  to  her  little  attentions. 
Of  course  all  that  sort  of  thing  had  on 
me  the  effect  which  it  always  has,  and  I 
rapidly  began  to  make  an  ass  of  myself.  I 
began  to  hint  about  those  other  affairs — and 
at  last  I  told  her  I  didn't  believe  she'd  for 
given  me." 

Here  Jack  made  an  awful  pause,  and 
looked  at  me  in  deep  solemnity. 

I  said  nothing,  but  puffed  away  in  my 
usual  thoughtful  manner. 

"The  moment  that  I  said  that,"  con 
tinued  Jack,  "  she  turned  and  gave  me  the 
strangest  look.  '  Forgiven  you,'  said  she ; 
'  after  all  that  has  passed,  can  you  say 
that  ? ' 

"  *  Well,'  I  said,  '  you  don't  seem  alto 
gether  what  you  used  to  be — ' 


"'I!'  she  exclaimed.  'I  not  what  I 
used  to  be  ? — and  you  can  look  me  in  the 
face  and  say  that.' 

"  And  now,  Macrorie,  listen  to  what  an 
ass  can  do. 

"  You  see,  her  language,  her  tone,  and 
her  look,  all  piqued  me.  But  at  the  same 
time  I  didn't  know  what  to  say.  I  didn't 
love  her— confound  her ! — and  I  knew  that 
I  didn't — but  I  wanted  to  assert  myself,  or 
some  other  damned  thing  or  other — so  what 
did  I  do  but  take  her  hand." 

I  puffed  on. 

"  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"  '  Ah,  Jack,'  she  sighed,  « I  don't  believe 
you  care  any  thing  for  poor  me.' " 

Jack  paused  for  a  while,  and  sat  looking 
at  the  floor. 

"  Which  was  quite  true,"  he  continued, 
at  last.  "  Only  under  the  circumstances, 
being  thus  challenged,  you  know,  by  a  very 
pretty  widow,  and  being  an  ass,  and  being 
conceited,  and  being  dazzled  by  the  sur 
roundings,  what  did  I  do  but  begin  to 
swear  that  I  loved  her  better  than  ever  ? 

"  '  And  me  alone ! '  she  sighed. 

" '  Yes,  you  alone ! '  I  cried,  and  then 
went  on  in  the  usual  strain  in  which  im 
passioned  lovers  go  under  such  circum 
stances;  but  with  this  very  material  differ 
ence,  that  I  didn't  happen  to  be  an  im 
passioned  lover,  or  any  other  kind  of  a 
lover  of  hers  at  all,  and  I  knew  it  all  the 
time,  and  all  the  time  felt  a  secret  horror 
at  what  I  was  saying. 

"  But  the  fact  of  the  business  is,  Macro 
rie,  that  woman  is — oh — she  is  awfully 
clever,  and  she  managed  to  lead  me  on,  I 
don't  know  how.  She  pretended  not  to 
believe  me — she  hinted  at  my  indifference, 
she  spoke  about  my  joy  at  getting  away 
from  her  so  as  to  go  elsewhere,  and  said  a 
thousand  other  things,  all  of  which  had  the 
effect  of  making  me  more  of  an  ass  than 


JACK'S  TEIBULATIONS. 


127 


«ver,  and  so  I  rushed  headlong  to  destruc 
tion." 

Here  Jack  paused,  and  looked  at  me  de 
spairingly. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  I. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

"Go  on,"  said  I.  "Make  an  end  of  it. 
Out  with  it !  What  next  ?  " 

Jack  gave  a  groan. 

"  Well — you  see — somehow — I  went  on 
— and  before  I  knew  it  there  I  was  offer 
ing  to  marry  her  on  the  spot — and — heav 
ens  and  earth  !  Macrorie — wasn't  it  a  sort 
of  judgment  on  me — don't  you  think? — 
I'd  got  used  to  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know 
— offering  to  marry  people  off  hand,  you 
know,  and  all  that — and  so  it  came  natural 
on  this  occasion ;  and  I  suppose  that  was 
how  it  happened,  that  before  I  knew  what  I 
was  doing  I  had  pumped  out  a  violent  and 
vehement  entreaty  for  her  to  be  mine  at 
once. — Yes,  at  once — any  time — that  even 
ing — the  next  day — the  day  after — no  mat 
ter  when.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  say  now 
whether  at  that  moment  I  was  really  sin 
cere  or  not.  I'm  such  a  perfect  and  fin 
ished  ass,  that  I  really  believe  I  meant 
what  I  said,  and  at  that  time  I  really 
wanted  her  to  marry  me.  If  that  con 
founded  chaplain  that  goes  humJJugging 
about  there  all  the  time  had  happened  to 
be  in  the  room,  I'd  have  asked  him  to  tie 
the  knot  on  the  spot.  Yes,  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I  wouldn't !  His  not  being  there  is  the 
only  reason,  I  believe,  why  the  knot  wasn't 
tied.  In  that  case  I'd  now  be  Mr.  Finni- 
more — no,  by  Jove — what  rot ! — I  mean  I'd 
now  be  her  husband,  and  she'd  be  Mrs. 
Randolph — confound  her ! " 

Jack  again  relapsed  into  silence.  His 
confession  was  a  difficult  task  for  him,  and 
it  came  hard.  It  was  given  piecemeal,  like 
the  confession  of  a  murderer  on  the  day 
before  his  execution,  when  his  desire  to  con 


fess  struggles  with  his  unwillingness  to  re 
call  the  particulars  of  an  abhorrent  deed, 
and  when  after  giving  one  fact  he  delays 
and  falters,  and  lapses  into  long  silence  be 
fore  he  is  willing  or  able  to  give  another. 

"  Well,  after  that,"  he  resumed,  at  last, 
"  I  was  fairly  in  for  it — no  hope,  no  going 
back  —  no  escapes  —  trapped,  my  boy  — 
nabbed — gone  in  forever — head  over  heels, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  The  widow  was 
affected  by  my  vehemence,  as  a  matter  of 
course — she  stammered — she  hesitated,  and 
of  course,  being  an  ass,  I  was  only  made 
more  vehement  by  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know.  So  I  urged  her,  and  pressed 
her,  and  then,  before  I  knew  what  I  was 
about,  I  found  her  coyly  granting  my  insane 
request  to  name  the  day." 

"  Oh,  Jack  !  Jack  !  Jack !  "  I  exclaimed. 
"  Go  on,"  said  he.  "  Haven't  you  some 
thing  more  to  say  ?  Pitch  in.  Give  it  to 
me  hot  and  heavy.  You  don't  seem  to  be 
altogether  equal  to  the  occasion,  Macrorie. 
Why  don't  you  hit  hard  ?  " 

"  Can't  do  it,"  said  I.  "  I'm  knocked 
down  myself.  Wait,  and  I'll  come  to  time. 
But  don't  be  too  hard  on  a  fellow.  Be 
reasonable.  I  want  to  take  breath." 

"Name  the  day!  name  the  day!  name 
the  day!"  continued  Jack,  ringing  the 
changes  on  the  words ;  "  name  the  day ! 
By  Jove  !  See  here,  Macrorie — can't  you 
get  a  doctor's  certificate  for  me  and  have 
me  quietly  put  in  the  lunatic  asylum  before 
that  day  comes  ?  " 

"That's  not  a  bad  idea,"  said  I.  "It 
might  be  managed.  It's  worth  thinking 
about,  at  any  rate." 

"Wild!"  said  Jack,  "mad  as  a  March 
hare,  or  a  hatter,  or  any  other  thing  of 
that  sort  —  ungovernable — unmanageable, 
devoid  of  all  sense  and  reason — what  more 
do  you  want  ?  If  I  am  not  a  lunatic,  who 
is  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 


128 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


"  There's  a  great  deal  of  reason  in  that," 
said  I,  gravely. 

"No  there  isn't,"  said  Jack,  pettishly. 
"  It's  all  nonsense.  I  tell  you  I'm  a  mad 
man,  a  lunatic,  an  idiot,  any  thing  else.  I 
don't  quite  need  a  strait-jacket  as  yet,  but 
I  tell  you  I  do  need  the  seclusion  of  a 
comfortable  lunatic  asylum.  I  only  stipu 
late  for  an  occasional  drop  of  beer,  and  a 
whiff  or  two  at  odd  times.  Don't  you 
think  I  can  manage  it  ?  " 

"It  might  be  worth  trying,"  said  I. 
"  But  trot  on,  old  fellow." 

Jack,  thus  recalled  to  himself,  gave  an 
other  very  heavy  sigh. 

"  Where  was  I  ?  "  said  he.  "  Oh,  about 
naming  the  day.  Well,  I'll  be  hanged  if 
she  didn't  do  it.  She  did  name  the  day. 
And  what  day  do  you  think  it  was  that 
she  named  ?  What  day  !  Good  Heavens, 
Macrorie !  Only  think  of  it.  What  do  you 
happen  to  have  to  say,  now,  for  instance,  to 
the  20th  of  June?  Hey?  What  do  you 
say  to  next  Tuesday  ?  Tuesday,  the  20th 
of  June  !  Next  Tuesday !  Only  think  of 
it.  Mad  !  I  should  rather  think  so." 

I  had  nothing  to  say,  and  so  I  said  noth 
ing. 

At  this  stage  of  the  proceedings  Jack 
filled  a  pipe,  and  began  smoking  savagely, 
throwing  out  the  puffs  of  smoke  fast  and 
furious.  Both  of  us  sat  in  silence,  involved 
in  deep  and  anxious  thought — I  for  him,  he 
for  himself. 

At  last  he  spoke. 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  said  he,  putting 
down  the  pipe,  "  but  I  haven't  yet  told  you 
the  worst." 

"  The  worst  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  there's  something  more  to  be  told 
— something  which  has  brought  me  to  this. 
I'm  not  the  fellow  I  was.  It  isn't  the  wid 
ow  ;  it's  something  else.  It's — 


CHAPTER  XXXY. 

"  LOUIE  !  " — PLATONIC  FRIENDSHIP. — ITS  RE 
SULTS. — ADVICE  MAT  BE  GIVEN  TOO  FREE 
LY,  AND  CONSOLATION  MAY  BE  SOUGHT  FOR 
TOO  EAGERLY. — TWO  INFLAMMABLE  HEARTS 
SHOULD  NOT  BE  ALLOWED  TO  COME  TO 
GETHER. THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY. — A  BREAK 
DOWN,  AND  THE  RESULTS  ALL  AROUND. — 
THE  CONDEMNED  CRIMINAL. — THE  SLOW  YET 
SURE  APPROACH  OF  THE  HOUR  OF  EXECU 
TION. 

"IT'S  Louie '."said  Jack  again,  after  a 
pause.  "  That's  the  '  hinc  illse  lachrymse ' 
of  it,  as  the  Latin  grammar  has  it." 

"  Louie  ?  "  I  repeated. 

"  Yes,  Louie,"  said  Jack,  sadly  and  sol 
emnly. 

I  said  nothing.  I  saw  that  something 
more  was  coming,  which  would  afford  the 
true  key  to  Jack's  despair.  So  I  waited  in 
silence  till  it  should  come. 

"  As  for  the  widow  herself,"  said  Jack, 
meditatively,  "  she  isn't  a  bad  lot,  and,  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  Louie,  I  should  have 
taken  all  this  as  an  indication  of  Providence 
that  my  life  was  to  be  lived  out  under  her 
guidance ;  but  then  the  mischief  of  it  is, 
there  happens  to  be  a  Louie,  and  that 
Louie  happens  to  be  the  very  Louie  that  I 
can't  manage  to  live  without.  You  see 
there's  no  nonsense  about  this,  old  boy. 
You  may  remind  me  of  Miss  Phillips  and 
Number  Three,  but  I  swear  to  you  solemnly 
they  were  both  nothing  compared  with 
Louie.  Louie  is  the  only  one  that  ever 
has  fairly  taken  me  out  of  myself,  and 
fastened  herself  to  all  my  thoughts,  and 
hopes,  and  desires.  Louie  is  the  only  one 
that  has  ever  chained  me  to  her  in  such  a 
way  that  I  never  wished  to  leave  her  for 
anybody  else.  Louie  !  why,  ever  since  I've 


LOUIE  ! 


129 


known  her,  all  the  rest  of  the  world  and  of 
womankind  has  been  nothing,  and,  beside 
her,  it  all  sank  into  insignificance.  There 
you  have  it !  That's  the  way  I  feel  about 
Louie.  These  other  scrapes  of  mine — what 
are  they?  Bosh  and  nonsense,  the  absur 
dities  of  a  silly  boy !  But  Louie !  why, 
Macrorie,  I  swear  to  you  that  she  has 
twined  herself  around  me  so  that  the 
thought  of  her  has  changed  me  from  a 
calf  of  a  boy  into  a  man.  Now  I  know 
it  all.  Now  I  understand  why  I  followed 
her  up  so  close.  Now,  now,  and  now,  when 
I  know  it  all,  it  is  all  too  late  !  By  Jove,  I 
tell  you  what  it  is,  I've  talked  like  a  fool 
about  suicide,  but  I  swear  I've  been  so 
near  it  this  last  week  that  it's  not  a  thing 
to  laugh  at." 

And  Jack  looked  at  me  with  such  a 
wild  face  and  such  fierce  eyes  that  I 
began  to  think  of  the  long-talked-of 
head-stone  of  Anderson's  as  a  possi 
bility  which  was  not  so  very  remote,  after 
all. 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,"  said  he. 
"It's  a  relief.  I  feel  a  good  deal  better 
already  after  what  I  have  said. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  in 
which  his  frown  grew  darker,  and  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  vacancy — "  you  see,  that 
evening  I  stayed  a  little  later  than  usual 
with  the  widow.  At  last  I  hurried  off. 
The  deed  was  done,  and  the  thought  of  this 
made  every  nerve  tingle  within  me.  I  hur 
ried  off  to  see  Louie.  What  the  mischief 
did  I  want  of  Louie  ?  you  may  ask.  My 
only  answer  is  :  I  wanted  her  because  I 
wanted  her.  No  day  was  complete  without 
her.  I've  been  living  on  the  sight  of  her 
face  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  for  the 
past  two  months  and  more,  and  never  fair 
ly  knew  it  until  this  last  week,  when  it  has 
all  become  plain  to  me.  So  I  hurried  off 
to  Louie,  because  I  had  to  do  so — because 
9 


every  day  had  to  be  completed  by  the  sight 
of  her. 

"I  reached  the  house  somewhat  later 
than  usual.  People  were  there.  I  must 
have  looked  different  from  usual.  I  know 
I  was  very  silent,  and  I  must  have  acted 
queer,  you  know.  But  they  were  all  talk 
ing,  and  playing,  and  laughing,  and  none 
of  them  took  any  particular  notice.  And 
so  at  last  I  drifted  off  toward  Louie,  as 
usual.  She  was  expecting  me.  I  knew 
that.  She  always  expects  me.  But  this 
time  I  saw  she  was  looking  at  me  with  a 
very  queer  expression.  She  saw  some 
thing  unusual  in  my  face.  Naturally 
enough.  I  felt  as  though  I  had  com 
mitted  a  murder.  And  so  I  had.  I  had 
murdered  my  hope — my  love — my  darling 
— my  only  life  and  joy.  I'm  not  humbug 
ging,  Macrorie — don't  chaff,  for  Heaven's 
sake ! " 

I  wasn't  chaffing,  and  had  no  idea  of  such 
a  thing.  I  was  simply  listening,  with  a  very 
painful  sympathy  with  Jack's  evident  emo 
tion. 

"  We  were  apart  from  the  others,"  he 
continued,  in  a  tremulous  voice.  "  She 
looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at  her.  I  saw 
trouble  in  her  face,  and  she  saw  trouble  in 
mine.  So  we  sat.  We  were  silent  for 
some  time.  No  nonsense  now.  No  laugh 
ter.  No  more  teasing  and  coaxing.  Poor 
little  Louie !  How  distressed  she  looked  ! 
Where  was  her  sweet  smile  now  ?  Where 
was  her  laughing  voice  ?  Where  was  her 
bright,  animated  face — her  sparkling  eyes 
—  her  fun  —  her  merriment  —  her  chaff? 
Poor  little  Louie !  " 

And  Jack's  voice  died  away  into  a  moan 
of  grief. 

But  he  rallied  again,  and  went  on : 

"  She  asked  me  what  was  the  matter.  I 
told  her — nothing.  But  she  was  sure  that 
something  had  happened,  and  begged  me  to 


130 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


tell  her.  So  I  told  her  all.  And  her  face, 
as  I  told  her,  turned  as  white  as  marble. 
She  seemed  to  grow  rigid  where  she  sat. 
And,  as  I  ended,  sh'e  bent  down  her  head — 
and  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead 
— and  then  she  gave  me  an  awful  look — a 
look  which  will  haunt  me  to  my  dying  day 
— and  then — and  then — then — she— she 
burst  into  tears — and,  oh,  Macrorie — oh, 
how  she  cried  !  " 

And  Jack,  having  stammered  out  this, 
gave  way  completely,  and,  burying  his  face 
in  his  hands,  he  sobbed  aloud. 

Then  followed  a  long,  long  silence. 

At  last  Jack  roused  himself. 

"  You  see,  Macrorie,"  he  continued,  "  I 
had  been  acting  like  the  devil  to  her.  All 
her  chaff,  and  nonsense,  and  laughter,  had 
been  a  mask.  Oh,  Louie  !  She  had  grown 
fond  of  me — poor  miserable  devil  that  I  am 
— and  this  is  the  end  of  it  all ! 

"  She  got  away,"  said  Jack,  after  another 
long  silence — "  she  got  away  somehow ; 
and,  after  she  had  gone,  I  sat  for  a  while, 
feeling  like  a  man  who  has  died  and  got 
into  another  world.  Paralyzed,  bewildered 
— take  any  word  you  like,  and  it  will  not 
express  what  I  was.  I  got  off  somehow — 
I  don't  know  how — and  here  I  am.  I 
haven't  seen  her  since. 

"I  got  away,"  he  continued,  throwing 
back  his  head,  and  looking  vacantly  at  the 
ceiling — "  I  got  away,  and  came  here,  and 
the  next  day  I  got  a  letter  about  my  uncle's 
death  and  my  legacy.  I  had  no  sorrow  for 
my  poor  dear  old  uncle,  and  no  joy  over 
my  fortune.  I  had  no  thought  for  any 
thing  but  Louie.  Seven  thousand  a  year, 
or  ten  thousand,  or  a  hundred  thousand, 
whatever  it  might  be,  it  amounts  to  noth 
ing.  What  I  have  gained  is  nothing  to 
what  I  have  lost.  I'd  give  it  all  for  Louie. 
I'd  give  it  all  to  undo  what  has  been  done. 
I'd  give  it  all,  by  Heaven,  for  one  more 


sight  of  her  !  But  that  sight  of  her  I  can 
never  have.  I  dare  not  go  near  the  house. 
I  am  afraid  to  hear  about  her.  My  legacy ! 
I  wish  it  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  Atlan 
tic.  What  is  it  all  to  me,  if  I  have  to  give 
up  Louie  forever  ?  And  that's  what  it  is  ! " 

There  was  no  exaggeration  in  all  this. 
That  was  evident.  Jack's  misery  was  real, 
and  was  manifest  in  his  pale  face  and  gen 
eral  change  of  manner.  This  accounted 
for  it  all.  This  was  the  blow  that  had 
struck  him  down.  All  his  other  troubles 
had  been  laughable  compared  with  this. 
But  from  this  he  could  not  rally.  Nor,  for 
my  part,  did  I  know  of  any  consolation 
that  could  be  offered.  Now,  for  the  first 
time,  I  saw  the  true  nature  of  his  senti 
ments  toward  Louie,  and  learned  from  him 
the  sentiments  of  that  poor  little  thing 
toward  him.  It  was  the  old  story.  They 
had  been  altogether  too  much  with  one  an 
other.  They  had  been  great  friends,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  Louie  had  teased 
and  given  good  advice.  Jack  had  sought 
consolation  for  all  his  troubles.  And  now 
— lo  and  behold ! — in  one  moment  each 
had  made  the  awful  discovery  that  their 
supposed  friendship  was  something  far 
more  tender  and  far-reaching. 

"  I'll  never  see  her  again  !  "  sighed  Jack. 

"  Who  ?  "  said  I.     "  The  widow  ?  " 

"  The  widow  !  "  exclaimed  Jack,  contemp 
tuously  ;  "  no — poor  little  Louie  !  " 

"  But  you'll  see  the  widow  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Jack,  dryly.  "  I'll  have 
to  be  there." 

"  Why  not  kick  it  all  up,  and  go  home  on 
leave  of  absence  ?  " 

Jack  shook  his  head  despairingly. 

"No  chance,"  he  muttered  —  unot  a 
ghost  of  a  one.  My  sentence  is  pro 
nounced;  I  must  go  to  execution.  It's 
my  own  doing,  too.  I've  given  my  own 
word." 


A  FKIEND'S  APOLOGY  FOE  A  FRIEND. 


131 


"  Next  Tuesday  ?  " 

"  Next  Tuesday." 

"Where?" 

"  St.  Malachi's." 

"  Oh,  it  will  be  at  church,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Who's  the  parson  ?  " 

"  Oh,  old  Fletcher." 

"  At  what  time  ?  " 

"  Twelve  ;  and  see  here,  Macrorie,  you'll 
stand  by  a  fellow — of  course — won't  you  ? 
see  me  off — you  know — adjust  the  noose, 
watch  the  drop  fall — and  see  poor  Jack 
Randolph  launched  into — matrimony ! " 

"  Oh,  of  course." 

Silence  followed,  and  soon  I  took  my 
departure,  leaving  Jack  to  his  meditations 
and  his  despair. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

A  FRIEND'S  APOLOGY  FOR  A  FRIEND. — JACK 
DOWN  AT  THE  BOTTOM  OF  A  DEEP  ABYSS 
OF  WOE. — HIS  DESPAIR. — THE  HOUR  AND 
THE  MAN  ! — WHERE  IS  THE  WOMAN  ! — A 
SACRED  SPOT. OLD  FLETCHER. THE  TOLL 

OF  THE   BELL. — MEDITATIONS  ON  EACH   SUC 
CESSIVE     STROKE. A    WILD    SEARCH. THE 

PRETTY     SERVANT-MAID,    AND     HER     PRETTY 
STORY. — THROWING   GOLD   ABOUT. 

JACK'S  strange  revelation  excited  my 
deepest  sympathy,  but  I  did  not  see  how 
it  was  possible  for  him  to  get  rid  of  his 
difficulty.  One  way  was  certainly  possible. 
He  could  easily  get  leave  of  absence  and 
go  home,  for  the  sake  of  attending  to  his 
estates.  Once  in  England,  he  could  sell 
out,  and  retire  from  the  army  altogether, 
or  exchange  into  another  regiment.  This 
was  certainly  possible  physically;  but  to 
Jack  it  was  morally  impossible. 

Now,  Jack  has  appeared  in  this  story 
in  very  awkward  circumstances,  engaging 


himself  right  and  left  to  every  young  lady 
that  he  fancied,  with  a  fatal  thoughtless 
ness,  that  cannot  be  too  strongly  repre 
hended.  Such  very  diffusive  affection 
might  argue  a  lack  of  principle.  Yet, 
after  all,  Jack  was  a  man  with  a  high 
sense  of  honor.  The  only  difficulty  was 
this,  that  he  was  too  susceptible.  All 
susceptible  men  can  easily  understand 
such  a  character.  I'm  an  awfully  suscep 
tible  man  myself,  as  I  have  already  had 
the  honor  of  announcing,  and  am,  more 
over,  a  man  of  honor — consequently  I  feel 
strongly  for  Jack,  and  always  did  feel 
strongly  for  him. 

Given,  then,  a  man  of  very  great  suscep 
tibility,  and  a  very  high  sense  of  honor,  and 
what  would  he  do  ? 

Why,  in  the  first  place,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  his  too  susceptible  heart  would  in 
volve  him  in  many  tendernesses ;  and,  if 
he  was  as  reckless  and  thoughtless  as  Jack, 
he  would  be  drawn  into  inconvenient  en 
tanglements  ;  and,  perhaps,  like'  Jack,  be 
fore  he  knew  what  he  was  about,  he  might 
find  himself  engaged  to  three  different 
ladies,  and  in  love  with  a  fourth. 

In  the  second  place,  his  high  sense  of 
honor  would  make  him  eager  to  do  his  duty 
by  them  all.  Of  course,  this  would  be  im 
possible.  Yet  Jack  had  done  his  best.  He 
had  offered  immediate  marriage  to  Miss 
Phillips,  and  had  proposed  an  elopement  to 
Number  Three.  This  shows  that  his  im 
pulses  led  him  to  blind  acts  which  tended 
in  a  vague  way  to  do  justice  to  the  particu 
lar  lady  who  happened  for  the  time  being 
to  be  in  his  mind. 

And  so  Jack  had  gone  blundering  on  un 
til  at  last  he  found  himself  at  the  mercy  of 
the  widow.  The  others  had  given  him  up 
in  scorn.  She  would  not  give  him  up.  He 
was  bound  fast.  He  felt  the  bond.  In  the 
midst  of  this  his  susceptibility  drove  him 


132 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


on  further,  and,  instead  of  trying  to  get  out 
of  his  difficulties,  he  had  madly  thrust  him 
self  further  into  them. 

And  there  he  was — doomed — looking  for 
ward  to  the  fateful  Tuesday. 

He  felt  the  full  terror  of  his  doom,  but 
did  not  think  of  trying  to  evade  it.  He 
was  bound.  His  word  was  given.  He  con 
sidered  it  irrevocable.  Flight?  He  thought 
no  more  of  that  than  he  thought  of  com 
mitting  a  murder.  He  would  actually  have 
given  all  that  he  had,  and  more  too,  for  the 
sake  of  getting  rid  of  the  widow ;  but  he 
would  not  be  what  he  considered  a  sneak, 
even  for  that. 

There  was,  therefore,  no  help  for  it.  He 
was  doomed.  Tuesday  !  June  20th  !  St. 
Malachi's  !  Old  Fletcher  !  Launched  into 
matrimony  !  Hence  his  despair. 

During  the  intervening  days  I  did  not 
see  him.  I  did  not  visit  him,  and  he  did 
not  come  near  me.  Much  as  I  sympathized 
with  him  in  his  woes,  I  knew  that  I  could 
do  nothing  and  say  nothing.  Besides,  I  had 
my  own  troubles.  Every  time  I  went  to 
O'Halloran's,  Marion's  shyness,  and  reserve, 
and  timidity,  grew  more  marked.  Every 
time  that  I  came  home,  I  kept  bothering 
myself  as  to  the  possible  cause  of  all  this, 
and  tormented  myself  as  to  the  reason  of 
such  a  change  in  her. 

One  day  I  called  at  the  Bertons'.  I 
didn't  see  Louie.  I  asked  after  her,  and 
they  told  me  she  was  not  well.  I  hoped  it 
was  nothing  serious,  and  felt  relieved  at 
learning  that  it  was  nothing  but  a  "  slight 
cold."  I  understood  that.  Poor  Louie ! 
Poor  Jack!  Would  that  "slight  cold" 
grow  worse,  or  would  she  get  over  it  in 
time  ?  She  did  not  seem  to  be  of  a  mor 
bid,  moping  nature.  There  was  every  rea 
son  to  hope  that  such  a  one  as  she  was 
would  surmount  it.  And  yet  it  was  hard  to 
say.  It  is  often  these  very  natures — buoy 


ant,  robust,  healthy,  straightforward — which 
feel  the  most.  They  are  not  impressible. 
They  are  not  touched  by  every  new  emo 
tion.  And  so  it  sometimes  happens  that, 
when  they  do  feel,  the  feeling  lasts  forever. 

Tuesday,  at  last,  came — the  20th — the 
fated  day ! 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  I  entered  Jack's 
room,  prepared  to  act  my  part  and  stand  by 
his  side  in  that  supreme  moment  of  fate. 

Jack  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  as  I  came 
in.  He  rose  and  pressed  my  hand  in 
silence.  I  said  nothing,  but  took  my  seat 
in  an  easy-chair.  Jack  was  arrayed  for 
the  ceremony  in  all  respects,  except  his 
coat,  instead  of  which  garment  he  wore  a 
dressing-gown.  He  was  smoking  vigorous 
ly.  His  face  was  very  pale,  and,  from  time 
to  time,  a  heavy  sigh  escaped  him. 

I  was  very  forcibly  struck  by  the  strong 
resemblance  which  there  was  between  Jack, 
on  the  present  occasion,  and  a  condemned 
prisoner  before  his  execution.  So  strong 
was  this,  that,  somehow,  as  I  sat  there  in 
silence,  a  vague  idea  came  into  my  head 
that  Jack  was  actually  going  to  be  hanged ; 
and,  before  I  knew  where  my  thoughts  were 
leading  me,  I  began  to  think,  in  a  misty 
way,  of  the  propriety  of  calling  in  a  clergy 
man  to  administer  ghostly  consolation  to 
the  poor  condemned  in  his  last  moments. 
It  was  only  with  an  effort  that  I  was  able 
to  get  rid  of  this  idea,  and  come  back  from 
this  foolish,  yet  not  unnatural  fancy,  to  the 
reality  of  the  present  situation.  There  was 
every  reason,  indeed,  for  such  a  momentary 
misconception.  The  sadness,  the  silence, 
the  gloom,  all  suggested  some  prison  cell ; 
and  Jack,  prostrate,  stricken,  miserable, 
mute,  and  despairing,  could  not  fail  to  sug 
gest  the  doomed  victim. 

After  a  time  Jack  rose,  and,  going  to 
the  sideboard,  offered  me  something  to 
drink.  I  declined.  Whereupon  he  poured 


A  FEIEND'S  APOLOGY  FOE  A  FEIEND. 


133 


out  a  tumblerful  of  raw  brandy  and  hastily 
swallowed  it.  As  he  had  done  that  very 
same  thing  before,  I  began  to  think  that  he 
was  going  a  little  too  far. 

"  See  here,  old  boy,"  said  I,  "  arn't  you 
a  little  reckless  ?  That  sort  of  thing  isn't 
exactly  the  best  kind  of  preparation  for  the 
event — is  it  ?  " 

"  What  ?— this  ?  "  said  Jack,  holding  up 
the  empty  tumbler,  with  a  gloomy  glance 
toward  me ;  "  oh,  its  nothing.  I've  been 
drenching  myself  with  brandy  this  last 
week.  It's  the  only  thing  I  can  do.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  it  don't  have  much  effect 
now.  I  have  to  drink  too  much  of  it 
before  I  can  bring  myself  into  a  proper 
state  of  calm." 

"Calm!"  said  I,  "calm!  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  old  chap,  you'll  find  it'll  be 
any  thing  but  calm.  You'll  have  delirium 
tremens  before  the  week's  out,  at  this 
rate." 

"  Delirium  tremens  ?  "  said  Jack,  with  a 
faint,  cynical  laugh.  "  No  go,  my  boy — too 
late.  Not  time  now.  If  it  had  only  come 
yesterday,  I  might  have  had  a  reprieve. 
But  it  didn't  come.  And  so  I  have  only 
a  tremendous  headache.  I've  less  than  an 
hour,  and  can't  get  it  up  in  that  time. 
Let  me  have  my  swing,  old  man.  I'd  do 
as  much  for  you." 

And,  saying  this,  he  drank  off  a  half  tum 
bler  more. 

"  There,"  said  he,  going  back  to  the  sofa. 
"That's  better.  I  feel  more  able  to  go 
through  with  it.  It  takes  a  good  lot  now, 
though,  to  get  a  fellow's  courage  up." 

After  this,  Jack  again  relapsed  into 
silence,  which  I  ventured  to  interrupt  with 
a  few  questions  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
coming  ceremony.  Jack's  answers  were 
short,  reluctant,  and  dragged  from  him 
piecemeal.  It  was  a  thing  which  he  had 
to  face  in  a  very  short  time,  and  any  other 


subject  was  preferable  as  a  theme  for  con 
versation. 

"  Will  there  be  much  of  a  crowd  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  You  didn't  invite  any." 

"  Me  ?  invite  any  ?  Good  Lord  !  I 
should  think  not ! " 

"  Perhaps  she  has  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  she  said  she  wouldn't." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  the  town,  by  this  time, 
has  got  wind  of  it,  and  the  church'll  be 
full." 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  Jack,  with  a 
sigh. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  it's  not  a  common 
affair." 

"  Well,  she  told  me  she  had  kept  it  a 
secret — and  you  and  Louie  are  the  only 
ones  I've  told  it  to — so,  unless  you  have 
told  about  it,  no  one  knows." 

"  I  haven't  told  a  soul." 

"  Then  I  don't  see  how  anybody  can 
know,  unless  old  Fletcher  has  proclaimed 
it." 

"  Not  he ;  he  wouldn't  take  the  trouble." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Jack,  morosely, 
"  how  many  are  there,  or  how  few.  Crowd 
or  no  crowd,  it  makes  small  difference  to 
me,  by  Jove ! " 

"  Look  here,  old  fellow,"  said  I,  sudden- 
ly,  after  some  further  conversation,  "if 
you're  going,  you'd  better  start.  It's  a 
quarter  to  twelve  now." 

Jack  gave  a  groan  and  rose  from  his  sofa. 
He  went  into  his  dressing-room  and  soon  re 
turned,  in  his  festive  array,  with  a  face  of 
despair  that  was  singularly  at  variance  with 
his  costume.  Before  starting,  in  spite  of 
my  remonstrances,  he  swallowed  another 
draught  of  brandy.  I  began  to  doubt 
whether  he  would  be  able  to  stand  up  at 
the  ceremony. 

St.  Malachi's  was  not  far  away,  and  a 
few  minutes'  drive  brought  us  there. 


134 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


The  church  was  quite  empty.  A  few 
stragglers,  unknown  to  us,  had  taken  seats 
in  the  front  pews.  Old  Fletcher  was  in 
the  chancel.  We  walked  up  and  shook 
hands  with  him.  He  greeted  Jack  with 
an  affectionate  earnestness  of  congratula 
tion,  which,  I  was  sorry  to  see,  was  not 
properly  responded  to. 

After  a  few  words,  we  all  sat  down  in  the 
choir. 

It  wanted  about  five  minutes  of  the  time. 

The  widow  was  expected  every  moment. 

Old  Fletcher  now  subsided  into  dignified 
silence.  I  fidgeted  about,  and  looked  at 
my  watch  every  half-minute.  As  for  Jack, 
he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  sat 
motionless. 

Thus  four  minutes  passed. 

No  signs  of  the  widow. 

One  minute  still  remained. 

The  time  was  very  long. 

I  took  out  my  watch  a  half-dozen  times, 
to  hasten  its  progress.  I  shook  it  impa 
tiently  to  make  it  go  faster.  The  great 
empty  church  looked  cold  and  lonely.  The 
little  group  of  spectators  only  added  to  the 
loneliness  of  the  scene.  An  occasional 
cough  resounded  harshly  amid  the  univer 
sal  stillness.  The  sibilant  sounds  of  whis 
pers  struck  sharply  and  unpleasantly  upon 
the  ear. 

At  last  the  minute  passed. 

I  began  to  think  my  watch  was  wrong ; 
but  no— for  suddenly,  from  the  great  bell 
above,  in  the  church-tower,  there  tolled  out 
the  first  stroke  of  the  hour.  And  between 
each  stroke  there  seemed  a  long,  long  in 
terval,  in  which  the  mind  had  leisure  to 
turn  over  and  over  all  the  peculiarities  of 
this  situation. 

ONE  !  I  counted. 

[No  widow.  What's  up  ?  Did  any  one 
ever  hear  of  a  bride  missing  the  hour,  or 
delaying  in  this  way  ?] 


Two! 

[What  a  humbug  of  a  woman !  She  has 
cultivated  procrastination  all  her  life,  and 
this  is  the  result.] 

THREE ! 

[Not  yet.  Perhaps  she  wants  to  make 
a  sensation.  She  anticipates  a  crowded 
church,  and  will  make  an  entrance  in 
state.] 

FOUR! 

[But  no  ;  she  did  not  invite  anybody,  and 
had  no  reason  to  suppose  that  any  one 
would  be  here.] 

FIVE! 

[No,  it  could  not  be  vanity ;  but,  if  not, 
what  can  be  the  possible  cause  ?] 

Six! 

[Can  it  be  timidity,  bashfulness,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing  ?  Bosh  !  The  widow 
Finnimore  is  not  a  blushing,  timid  maiden.] 

SEVEN  ! 

[Perhaps  her  watch  is  out  of  the  way. 
But,  then,  on  one's  marriage-day,  would  not 
one  see,  first  of  all,  that  one's  watch  was 
right?] 

EIGHT ! 

[Perhaps  something  is  the  matter  with 
her  bridal  array.  The  dress  might  not  have 
arrived  in  time.  She  may  be  waiting  for 
her  feathers.] 

NINE  ! 

[Not  yet !  Perhaps  she  is  expecting 
Jack  to  go  to  her  house  and  accompany 
her  here.  It  is  very  natural  Jack  may 
have  agreed  to  do  so,  and  then  forgotten 
all  about  it.] 

TEN! 

[Perhaps  there  has  been  some  misunder 
standing  about  the  hour,  and  the  widow  is 
not  expecting  to  come  till  two.] 

ELEVEN  ! 

[Perhaps  she  is  ill.  Sudden  attack  of 
vertigo,  acute  rheumatism,  and  brain-fever, 
consequent  upon  the  excitement  of  the 


A  FKIEND'S  APOLOGY  FOE  A  FEIEND. 


135 


occasion.  The  widow  prostrated !  Jack 
saved !] 

TWELVE ! ! ! 

The  last  toll  of  the  bell  rolled  out  slowly 
and  solemnly,  and  its  deep  tones  came  along 
the  lofty  church,  and  died  away  in  long  re 
verberations  down  the  aisles  and  along  the 
galleries.  Twelve!  The  hour  had  come, 
and  with  the  hour  the  man ;  but  where 
was  the  woman  ? 

Thus  far  Jack  had  been  holding  his  face 
in  his  hands ;  but,  as  the  last  tones  of  the 
bell  died  away,  he  raised  himself  and  looked 
around  with  some  wildness  in  his  face. 

"  By  Jove ! "  said  he. 

"  What  ?  » 

"  The  widow  ! " 

"  She's  not  here,"  said  I. 

"  By  Jove  !  Only  think  of  it.  A  widow, 
and  too  late  !  By  Jove !  I  can't  grapple 
with  the  idea,  you  know." 

After  this  we  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
waited. 

The  people  in  the  pews  whispered  more 
vigorously,  and  every  little  while  looked 
anxiously  around  to  see  if  the  bridal  party 
was  approaching.  Old  Fletcher  closed  his 
eyes,  folded  his  arms,  and  appeared  either 
buried  in  thought  or  in  sleep — probably  a 
'little  of  both.  Jack  sat  stolidly  with  his 
legs  crossed,  and  his  hands  hugging  his 
knee,  looking  straight  before  him  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  chancel,  and  appar 
ently  reading  most  diligently  the  Ten  Com 
mandments,  the  Creed,  and  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  which  were  on  the  wall  there.  I 
was  in  a  general  state  of  mild  but  ever- 
increasing  surprise,  and  endeavored  to  find 
some  conceivable  reason  for  such  very  curi 
ous  procrastination. 

So  the  time  passed,  and  none  of  us  said 
any  thing,  and  the  little  company  of  spec 
tators  grew  fidgety,  and  Jack  still  stared, 
and  I  still  wondered. 


At  last  old  Fletcher  turned  to  Jack. 

"  You  said  twelve,  I  think,  sir,"  said  he, 
mildly  and  benevolently. 

"  Twelve  —  did  I  ?  Well  —  of  course  ; 
why  not  ?  Twelve,  of  course." 

"  The  lady  is  rather  behind  the  time,  I 
think — isn't  she  ?  "  said  the  reverend  gen 
tleman,  with  mild  suggestiveness. 

"  Behind  the  time  ?  "  said  Jack,  fumbling 
at  his  watch ;  "  why,  so.  she  is ;  why,  it's 
twenty  minutes  to  one.  By  Jove  ! " 

"  Perhaps  you  mistook  the  hour,"  hinted 
the  clergyman. 

"  Mistook  it  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  cried 
Jack,  who  looked  puzzled  and  bewildered. 
"  The  hour  ?  I'm  as  confident  it  was 
twelve  as  I'm  confident  of  my  existence. 
Not  a  bit  of  doubt  about  that." 

"  Perhaps  something's  happened,"  said 
I;  "hadn't  I  better  drive  round  to  the 
house,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  not  a  bad  idea,"  said  Jack.  "  I'll 
go  too.  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I've 
read  the  ten  commandments  through  seven 
ty-nine  times,  and  was  trying  to  work  up  to 
a  hundred,  when  you  interrupted  me.  Do 
you  know,  old  chap — I  feel  out  of  sorts ; 
that  brandy's  got  to  my  head — I'd  like  a 
little  fresh  air.  Besides,  I  can't  stand  this 
waiting  any  longer.  If  it's  got  to  be — 
why,  the  sooner  the  better.  Have  it  out 
— and  be  done  with  it,  I  say.  A  fellow 
don't  want  to  stand  all  day  on  the  scaffold 
waiting  for  the  confounded  hangman — does 
he?" 

Jack  spoke  wildly,  cynically,  and  despe 
rately.  Old  Fletcher  listened  to  these 
words  with  a  face  so  full  of  astonishment 
and  horror,  that  it  has  haunted  me  ever 
since.  And  so  we  turned  away,  and  we  left 
that  stricken  old  man  looking  after  us  in 
amazement  and  horror  too  deep  for  words. 

Jack's  spirits  had  flushed  up  for  a  mo 
ment  into  a  fitful  light;  but  the  next  mo 


136 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


ment  they  sank  again  into  gloom.  We 
walked  slowly  down  the  aisle,  and,  as  we 
passed  down,  the  spectators,  seeing  us  go 
out,  rose  from  their  seats  with  the  evident 
conviction  that  the  affair  was  postponed, 
and  the  determination  to  follow.  Jack's 
carriage  was  at  the 'door,  and  we  drove  off. 

"  Macrorie,  my  boy,"  said  Jack. 

"  What  ?  " 

"  You  didn't  bring  your  flask,  I  sup 
pose,"  said  Jack,  gloomily. 

"No,"  said  I;  "  and  it's  well  I  didn't, 
for  I  think  you've  done  enough  of  that 
sort  of  thing  to-day." 

"  To-day  ?  This  is  the  day  of  all  days 
when  I  ought.  How  else  can  I  keep  up  ? 
I  must  stupefy  myself,  that's  all.  You 
don't  know,  old  boy,  how  near  I  am  to  do 
ing  something  desperate." 

"  Come,  Jack,  don't  knock  under  that 
way.  Confound  it,  I  thought  you  had  more 
spirit." 

"  Why  the  deuce  does  she  drive  me  mad 
with  her  delay  ?  "  cried  Jack,  a  few  minutes 
after.  "  Why  doesn't  she  come  and  be  done 
with  it  ?  Am  I  to  spend  the  whole  day 
waiting  for  her  ?  By  Jove,  I've  a  great 
mind  to  go  home,  and,  if  she  wants  me,  she 
may  come  for  me." 

"  Do,"  said  I,  eagerly.  "  She's  missed 
the  appointment ;  why  should  you  care  ?  " 

"  Pooh !  a  fellow  can't  act  in  that  sort 
of  way.  No.  Have  it  out.  I've  acted 
badly  enough,  in  a  general  way,  but  I  won't 
go  deliberately  and  do  a  mean  thing.  I 
dare  say  this  sort  of  thing  will  wear  off  in 
the  long  run.  We'll  go  to  England  next 
week.  We'll  start  for  New  York  to-night, 
and  never  come  back.  I  intend  to  try  to 
get  into  the  178th  regiment.  It's  out  in 
Bombay,  I  believe.  Yes.  I've  made  up 
my  mind  to  that.  It's  the  only  thing  to 
be  done.  Yes — it's  the  best  thing — far  the 
best  for  both  of  us." 


"  Both  of  you  ! " 

"  Both,  yes  ;  of  course." 

"  What,  you  and  the  widow  ?  " 

"The  widow?  Confound  the  widow! 
Who's  talking  of  her  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  talking  of  her. 
You  said  you  were  going  to  take  her  to 
England." 

"  The  widow  ?  No,"  cried  Jack,  peev 
ishly  ;  "  I  meant  Louie,  of  course.  Who 
else  could  I  mean  ?  Louie.  I  said  it 
would  be  far  better  for  me  and  Louie  if  I 
went  to  Bombay."  ,  >' 

And  with  these  words  he  flung  himself 
impatiently  back  in  the  carriage  and  scowled 
at  vacancy. 

And  this  was  Jack.  This  was  my  broad- 
browed,  frank-faced,  golden-haired,  bright, 
smiling,  incoherent,  inconsistent,  inconse 
quential,  light-hearted,  hilarious  Jack — the 
Jack  who  was  once  the  joy  of  every  com 
pany,  rollicking,  reckless,  and  without  a 
care.  To  this  complexion  had  he  come  at 
last.  Oh,  what  a  moral  ruin  was  here,  my 
countrymen !  Where  now  were  his  jests 
and  gibes — his  wit,  that  was  wont  to  set 
the  table  in  a  roar  ?  Alas !  poor  Yorick ! 
Amour !  amour  !  quand  tu  nous  tiens,  who 
can  tell  what  the  mischief  will  become  of 
us!  Once  it  was  "not  wisely  but  too 
many" — now  it  was  "not  wisely  but  too 
well" — and  this  was  the  end  of  it.  '  0 
Louie !  0  Jack  !  Is  there  no  such  thing 
as  true  Platonic  love  on  earth  ? 

But  there  was  not  much  time  for  Jack 
to  scowl  or  for  me  to  meditate.  The  wid 
ow  did  not  live  very  far  away,  and  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  was  enough  to  bring  us  there. 

It  was  a  handsome  house.  I  knew  it 
well.  Jack  knew  it  better.  But  it  looked 
dark  now,  and  rather  gloomy.  The  shutters 
were  closed,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  life 
whatever. 

Jack  stared  at  the  house  for  a  moment, 


A  FEIEND'S  APOLOGY  FOE  A  FEIEND. 


137 


and  then  jumped  out.  I  followed.  "We 
hurried  up  the  steps,  and  Jack  gave  a  fierce 
pull  at  the  bell,  followed  by  a  second  and  a 
third. 

At  the  third  pull  the  door  opened  and  dis 
closed  a  maid-servant. 

"Mrs.  Finnimore?"  said  Jack,  as  he 
stepped  into  the  hall — and  then  stopped. 

The  servant  seemed  surprised. 

"  Mrs.  Finnimore  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack.     "  Is  she  here  ?  " 

"  Here  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Why,  sir— she's  gone — " 

"Gone!"  cried  Jack.  "Gone!  Im 
possible  !  Why  we  drove  straight  here 
from  St.  Malachi's,  and  didn't  meet  her. 
Which  street  did  she  go  ? " 

"  Which  street,  sir  ?  St.  Malachi's,  sir  ?  " 
repeated  the  servant,  in  bewilderment. 

"  Yes — which  way  did  she  go  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir — she  went  to  Montreal,"  said 
the  servant — "  to  Montreal,  you  know,  sir," 
she  repeated,  in  a  mincing  tone,  bridling 
and  blushing  at  the  same  time. 

"  To — where  ?  what  ?  "  cried  Jack,  thun 
derstruck — "  Montreal !  Montreal' !  What 
the  devil  is  the  meaning  of  all  that?" 
And  Jack  fairly  gasped,  and  looked  at  me 
in  utter  bewilderment.  And  I  looked  back 
at  him  with  emotions  equal  to  his  own. 
And  we  both  stood,  to  use  an  expressive 
but  not  by  any  means  classical  word — dura- 
founded. 

[Had  a  thunder-bolt  burst — and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know,  my  boy.] 

Jack  was  quite  unable  to  utter  another 
word.  So  I  came  to  his  help. 

"  I  think  you  said  your  mistress  went  to 
Montreal  ?  "  said  I,  mildly  and  encouraging 
ly,  for  the  servant  began  to  look  frightened. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me 
what  she  went  there  for  ?  I  wouldn't  ask 


you,  but  it's  a  matter  of  some  impor 
tance." 

"  What  for,  sir  ?  "  said  the  servant — and 
a  very  pretty  blush  came  over  her  rather 
pretty  face.  "What  for,  sir?  Why,  sir— 
you  know,  sir — she  went  off,  sir — on  her — 
her — wedding-tower,  sir." 

"  Her  WHAT  ! ! !  "  cried  Jack,  wildly. 

"  Her  wedding-tower,  sir,"  repeated  the 
servant,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"  Her  wedding-tour  ! "  cried  Jack.  "  Her 
wedding-tour!  Do  you  mean  what  you 
say  ?  Is  this  a  joke  ?.  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

At  this,  which  was  spoken  most  vehe 
mently  by  Jack,  who  was  now  in  a  state  of 
frightful  excitement,  the  servant  turned 
pale  and  started  back  in  fear — so  I  inter 
posed. 

"  Don't  be  at  all  alarmed,"  I  said,  kindly. 
"  We  merely  want  to  know,  you  know,  what 
you  mean  by  saying  it  was  a  wedding-tour. 
What  wedding  ?  We  want  to  know,  you 
know." 

"  Wedding,  sir  ?  Lor',  sir !  Yes,  sir. 
This  morning,  sir.  She  was  married,  you 
know,  sir." 

"  MARRIED  ! "  cried  Jack,  in  a  strange, 
wild  voice. 

"  This  morning  ! "   I  exclaimed. 

"Lor',  sir!  Yes,  sir,"  continued  the 
maid,  who  was  still  a  little  frightened  at 
the  presence  of  such  excited  visitors. 
"  This  morning,  sir.  Early,  sir.  Six 
o'clock,  sir.  And  they  took  the  seven 
o'clock  train,  sir — for  Montreal,  you  know, 
sir — and  they  talked  of  New  York,  sir." 

"  They  talked  ?  They  ?  Who  ?  Mar 
ried  !  Who  married  her?  The  widow! 
Mrs.  Finnimore  !  Married !  Nonsense !  And 
gone !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Who  was 
it?" 

The  maid  started  back  in  fresh  fear  at 
Jack's  terrible  agitation.  Terrible  ?  I 


138 

should  rather  think  go.     Imagine  a  crimi 
nal  with  the  noose  about  his  neck  hearing 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 

"  To  Colonel  Berton's ! "  roared  Jack. 
"  Nonsense,   Jack ! "   said  I ;    "  it's  too 


a  whisper  going  about  that  a  pardon  'had 
arrived.  Agitation?  I  should  say  that 
there  was  occasion  for  it.  Still,  I  didn't 
like  to  see  that  pretty  servant-maid  fright 
ened  out  of  her  wits.  So  I  interposed  once 
more. 

"  "We  merely  want  to  know,"  said  I, 
mildly,  "  who  the  gentleman  was  to  whom 
your  mistress  was  married  this  morning, 
and  with  whom  she  went  to  Montreal  ?  " 

"  Who,  sir  ?  Why,  sir — it  was  the  chap 
lain,  sir — of  the  Bobtails,  sir — the  Rev.  Mr. 
Trenaman." 

"  THE  CHAPLAIN  ! ! !  "  cried  Jack,  with  a 
strange  voice  that  was  somewhere  between 
a  shout  and  a  sob.  He  turned  to  me. 
There  was  ecstasy  on  his  face.  His  eyes 
were  all  aglow,  and  yet  I  could  see  in  them 
the  moisture  of  tears.  He  caught  my  hand 
in  both  of  his. 

"  Oh,  Macrorie  1 "  he  faltered,  "  see  here, 
old  boy — it's  too  much — Louie — all  right — 
at  last — too  much,  you  know." 

And  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  is,  he 
nearly  wrung  my  hand  off. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  servant-maid,  and 
fumbling  in  his  pockets  drew  out  a  hand 
ful  of  sovereigns — 

"  See  here ! "  he  said,  "  you  glorious  lit 
tle  thing  !  you  princess  of  servant-maids ! 
here's  something  for  a  new  bonnet,  you 
know,  or  any  thing  else  you  fancy." 

And  he  forced  the  sovereigns  into  her 
hand. 

Then  he  wrung  my  hand  again. 

Then  he  rushed  wildly  out. 

He  flung  some  more  sovereigns  at  the  as 
tonished  coachman. 

Then  he  sprang  into  the  carriage,  and  I 
followed. 

"  Where  shall  I  drive  to,  sir  ?  "  said  the 
coachman. 


early." 

"  Early — the  devil !  Xo  it  isn't. — Drive 
on." 

And  away  went  the  carriage. 

I  prevailed  on  Jack  to  drop  me  at  the 
corner  of  one  of  the  streets,  and,  getting 
out,  I  went  to  my  den,  meditating  on  the 
astonishing  events  of  the  day. 

The  conclusions  which  I  then  came  to 
about  Mrs.  Finnimore,  now  Mrs.  Trenaman, 
were  verified  fully  by  discoveries  made  after 
ward. 

She  had  been  quick-sighted  enough  to  see 
that  Jack  did  not  care  for  her,  and  had  given 
him  up.  The  chaplain  was  far  more  to  her 
taste.  As  Jack  came  again  to  her,  she 
could  not  resist  the  desire  to  pay  him  up. 
This  was  the  reason  why  she  led  him  on  to 
an  offer  of  matrimony,  and  named  the  day 
and  place.  Miss  Phillips  had  paid  him  up 
in  one  way ;  the  widow  chose  another  meth 
od,  which  was  more  in  accordance  with  her 
own  genius.  All  this  time  she  had  come 
to  a  full  understanding  with  the  chaplain, 
and  the  day  which  she  had  named  to  Jack 
was  the  very  one  on  which  her  real  mar 
riage  was  to  come  off.  I  never  could  find 
out  whether  the  chaplain  knew  about  it  or 
not.  I  rather  think  he  did  not.  If  he  had 
known,  he  would  have  dropped  a  hint  to 
Jack.  He  was  such  a  confoundedly  good- 
hearted  sort  of  a  fellow,  that  he  would  have 
interposed  to  prevent  the  success  of  the 
plan.  As  it  was,  it  was  carried  out  per 
fectly. 

After  all,  she  wasn't  a  bad  little  thing. 
She  knew  about  Jack's  devotion  to  Louie, 
and  thought  that  her  little  plot,  while  it 
gratified  her  own  feelings,  would  not  in 
any  way  interfere  with  Jack's  happiness. 
And  it  didn't.  For,  ever  since  then,  Jack 
has  never  ceased  to  declare  that  the  widow, 


MY  OWN  AFFAIRS. 


139 


as  he  still  called  her,  was — a  brick — a 
trump — a  glorious  lot — and  every  other 
name  that  has  ever  been  invented  to  ex 
press  whatever  is  noble,  excellent,  or  ad 
mirable  in  human  nature. 

The  next  morning  Jack  came  bursting 
into  my  room.  One  look  at  him  was 
enough.  Jack  was  himself  again.  He 
poured  forth  a  long,  a  vehement,  and  a 
very  incoherent  account  of  his  proceed 
ings.  I  can  only  give  the  general  facts. 

He  had  driven  at  once  to  Colonel  Ber- 
ton's.  He  had  dashed  into  the  house  and 
asked  for  Louie.  After  a  while  Louie  came 
down.  He  didn't  say  a  word  to  her,  but 
caught  her  in  his  arms.  She  didn't  resist. 
Perhaps  she  had  seen  in  his  face,  at  one 
glance,  that  he  was  free.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  the  absurd  fellow  could  tell  her 
what  had  happened.  At  length  he  man 
aged  to  get  it  all  out.  He  must  have  acted 
like  a  madman,  but,  as  all  lovers  are  more 
or  less  mad,  his  behavior  may  not  have 
seemed  very  unnatural  to  Louie.  The  poor 
little  girl  had  been  moping  ever  since  her 
last  interview  with  Jack ;  every  day  had 
made  it  worse  for  her ;  and  Jack  assured 
me  that,  if  he  hadn't  turned  up  at  that  par 
ticular  hour  on  that  particular  day,  she 
would  have  taken  to  her  bed,  and  never 
risen  from  it  again.  But  as  it  was  Jack's 
inveterate  habit  to  doom  to  death  all  the 
ladies  who  had  cherished  a  tender  passion 
in  his  behalf,  the  assertion  may  not  be  ab 
solutely  true.  Louie  might  possibly  have 
rallied  from  the  blow,  and  regained  the 
joy  and  buoyancy  of  her  old  life;  yet, 
however  that  may  be,  it  was  certainly  best 
for  her  that  things  should  have  turned  out 
just  as  they  did. 

But  I  must  now  leave  Jack,  and  get  on 
to— 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

MY  OWN  AFFAIRS. — A  DRIVE  AND  HOW  IT 
CAME  OFF. — VARYING  MOODS.  —  THE  EX 
CITED,  THE  GLOOMY,  AND  THE  GENTLEMANLY. 
— STRAYING  ABOUT  MONTMORENCY. — REVIS 
ITING  A  MEMORABLE  SCENE. EFFECT  OF 

SAID  SCENE. — A  MUTE  APPEAL  AND  AN  AP 
PEAL  IN  WORDS. — RESULT  OF  THE  APPEALS. 
— "  WILL  YOU  TURN  AWAY  ?  " — GRAND  RE 
SULT. — CLIMAX. — FINALE. — A  GENERAL  UN 
DERSTANDING  ALL  ROUND,  AND  A  UNIVER 
SAL  EXPLANATION  OF  NUMEROUS  PUZZLES. 

ALL  this  was  very  well.  Of  course.  To 
a  generous  nature  like  mine,  the  happiness 
of  a  friend  could  not  fail  to  extend  itself. 
For  I'm  awfully  sympathetic,  you  know.  I 
don't  remember  whether  I've  made  that  re 
mark  before  or  not,  but  in  either  case  the 
fact  remains.  Yet,  sympathetic  or  not, 
every  fellow  has  his  own  affairs,  you  know, 
and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  these  engage 
his  chief  attention.  Now  all  my  affairs 
circled  around  one  centre,  and  that  centre 
was — Marion ! 

I  had  seen  her  on  the  previous  evening. 
I  had  made  an  engagement  with  her  and 
Nora  to  go  out  with  me  for  a  drive  on  the 
following  day,  and  we  had  arranged  all 
about  it.  "We  were  to  drive  to  Montmo- 
rency  Falls,  a  place  which  is  the  chief  at 
traction  among  the  environs  of  Quebec.  I 
had  not  been  there  since  that  memorable 
day  when  I  rode  there  with  the  doctor  to 
find  my  bird  flown. 

Accordingly  on  the  next  day,  at  the  ap 
pointed  hour,  I  drew  up  in  front  of  O'Hal- 
loran's  and  went  in.  The  ladies  were  there, 
but  Nora  was  half-reclining  on  a  couch, 
and  seemed  rather  miserable.  She  com 
plained  of  a  severe  attack  of  neuralgia, 
and  lamented  that  she  could  not  go.  Up 


140 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


on  this  I  expressed  my  deepest  regrets,  and 
hoped  that  Miss  O'Halloran  would  come. 
But  Marion  demurred,  and  said  she  wouldn't 
leave  Nora.  Whereupon  Nora  urged  her 
to  go,  and  finally,  after  evident  reluctance, 
Marion  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded. 

It  was  with  an  inexpressible  feeling  of 
exultation  that  I  drove  off  with  her.  At 
last  we  were  alone  together,  and  would  be 
so  for  hours.  The  frigidity  which  had 
grown  up  within  her  during  the  last  two 
months  might  possibly  be  relaxed  now  un 
der  the  influence  of  this  closer  association. 
My  heart  beat  fast.  I  talked  rapidly  about 
every  thing.  In  my  excitement  I  also 
drove  rapidly  at  first,  but  finally  I  had 
sufficient  sense  to  see  that  there  was  no 
need  to  shorten  so  precious  an  interview 
by  hurrying  it  through,  and  so  I  slackened 
our  speed. 

As  for  Marion,  she  seemed  as  calm  as 
I  was  agitated.  Her  demeanor  was  a  sin 
gular  one.  She  was  not  exactly  frigid  or 
repellent.  She  was  rather  shy  and  re 
served.  It  was  rather  the  constraint  of 
timidity  than  of  dislike.  Dislike?  No. 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  Whatever  her  feelings 
might  be,  she  had  no  reason  for  dislike. 
Still  she  was  cold — and  her  coldness  began 
gradually  to  affect  me  in  spite  of  my  exul 
tation,  and  to  change  my  joy  to  a  feeling 
of  depression. 

After  a  few  miles  this  depression  had 
increased  sufficiently  to  sober  me  down 
completely.  I  no  longer  rattled.  I  became 
grave.  A  feeling  of  despondency  came 
over  me.  My  spirits  sank.  There  seemed 
no  sympathy  between  us — no  reciprocity  of 
feeling.  She  had  no  cordiality  of  manner 
— no  word,  or  look,  or  gesture,  to  give  en 
couragement. 

After  a  time  my  mood  changed  so  under 
the  influence  of  Marion's  depressing  man 
ner,  that  I  fell  into  long  fits  of  very  ungal- 


lant  silence — silence,  too,  which  she  never 
attempted  to  break.  Amid  these  fits  of 
silence  I  tried  to  conjecture  the  cause  of 
her  very  great  coolness,  and  finally  came  to 
the  very  decision  which  I  had  often  reached 
before.  "  Yes,"  I  thought,  "  she  has  dis 
covered  how  I  love  her,  and  she  does  not 
care  for  me.  She  has  gratitude,  but  she 
cannot  feel  love.  So  she  wishes  to  repel 
me.  She  didn't  want  to  come  with  me,  and 
only  came  because  Nora  urged  her.  She 
did  not  like  to  refuse,  for  fear  of  seeming 
unkind  to  me.  At  the  same  time,  now  that 
she  is  with  me,  she  is  trying  to  act  in  such 
a  way  as  will  effectually  quell  any  unpleas 
ant  demonstrations  of  mine."  Thoughts 
like  these  reduced  me  to  such  a  state  of 
gloom  that  I  found  myself  indulging  in 
fits  of  silence  that  grew  longer  and  longer. 

At  last  I  roused  myself.  This  sort  of 
thing  would  never  do.  If  nothing  else 
could  influence  me,  I  felt  that  I  ought  to 
obey  the  ordinary  instincts  of  a  gentleman. 
I  had  invited  her  for  a  drive,  and,  because 
she  was  constrained,  that  was  no  reason 
why  I  should  be  rude.  So  I  rallied  my 
failing  faculties,  and  endeavored  now  not 
to  secure  enjoyment  for  myself,  but  rather 
to  make  the  drive  agreeable  to  my  com 
panion. 

This  better  mood  lasted  all  the  rest  of 
the  way,  and  the  few  miles  of  feverish  ex 
citement,  which  were  followed  by  the  few 
miles  of  sullenness,  were  finally  succeeded 
by  the  ordinary  cheerfulness  of  a  travelling 
companion.  The  change  was  very  much 
for  the  better.  My  feverish  excitement 
had  served  to  increase  the  constraint  of 
Marion;  and  now,  since  it  had  passed 
away,  she  seemed  more  inclined  to  be 
agreeable.  There  were  many  things  to 
attract  and  interest  those  who  travelled 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  the  thing,  with 
out  any  ulterior  motives.  The  long  French 


MY  OWN  AFFAIES. 


141 


villages,  the  huge  chapels,  the  frequent 
crosses  by  the  way-side,  the  smooth,  level 
road,  the  cultivated  fields,  the  overshad 
owing  trees,  the  rich  luxuriance  of  the  vege 
tation,  the  radiant  beauty  of  the  scene  all 
around,  which  was  now  clothed  in  the 
richest  verdure  of  June,  the  habitants  along 
the  road — all  these  and  a  thousand  other 
things  sufficed  to  excite  attention  and 
elicit  remarks.  While  I  was  impassioned, 
or  eager,  or  vehement,  Marion  had  held 
aloof;  but  now,  while  I  was  merely  com 
monplace  and  conventional,  she  showed 
herself  sufficiently  companionable.  And 
so  our  drive  went  on,  and  at  last  we 
reached  our  destination. 

If  I  were  inclined  to  bore  the  reader,  I 
might  go  into  raptures  over  this  scene — 
where  the  river,  winding  on  amid  wooded 
banks,  and  over  rocky  ledges,  finally  tum 
bles  over  a  lofty  precipice,  and  flings  itself 
in  foam  into  the  St.  Lawrence;  where  the 
dark  cliffs  rise,  where  the  eddies  twirl  and 
twist,  where  the  spray  floats  upward  through 
the  span  of  its  rainbow  arch.  But  at  that 
moment  this  scene,  glorious  though  it  was, 
sank  into  insignificance  in  my  estimation  in 
comparison  with  Marion.  I  will  take  it  for 
granted  that  the  reader,  like  me,  finds  more 
interest  in  Marion  than  in  Montmorency, 
and  therefore  will  not  inflict  upon  him  any 
description  of  the  scene.  I  refer  him  to 
Byron's  lines  about  Yelino.  They  apply 
with  equal  force  to  Montmorency. 

Well.     To  resume. 

We  wandered  about  Montmorency  for 
an  hour  or  more.  We  walked  over  the 
broad,  flat  ledges.  We  descended  deep 
slopes.  We  climbed  lofty  rocks.  I  helped 
her  over  every  impediment.  I  helped  her 
down.  I  helped  her  up.  She  had  to  take 
my  hand  a  hundred  times  in  the  course  of 
that  scramble. 

There  was   an  informal  and  an  uncon 


ventional  character  about  such  proceedings 
as  these  which  did  much  toward  thawing 
the  crust  of  Marion's  reserve.  She  evident 
ly  enjoyed  the  situation — she  enjoyed  .the 
falls — she  enjoyed  the  rocky  ledges — she 
enjoyed  the  scramble — she  even  went  so 
far  on  one  occasion  as  to  show  something 
like  enthusiasm.  Nor  did  I,  in  the  delight 
of  that  time,  which  I  experienced  to  the 
most  vivid  degree,  ever  so  far  forget  my 
self  as  to  do  the  impassioned  in  any  shape 
or  way.  Whatever  was  to  be  the  final  re 
sult,  I  had  determined  that  this  day  should 
be  a  happy  one,  and,  since  Marion  objected 
so  strongly  to  the  intense  style,  she  should 
see  nothing  but  what  was  simply  friendly 
and  companionable. 

But  it  was  a  hard  struggle.  To  see  her 
beautiful,  animated  face — her  light,  agile 
form — to  feel  her  little  hand — to  hear  the 
musical  cadence  of  her  unequalled  voice, 
and  yet  to  repress  all  undue  emotion.  By 
Jove !  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  it  isn't  every 
fellow  who  could  have  held  out  as  long  as 
I  did. 

At  last  we  had  exhausted  the  falls,  and 
we  went  back  to  the  little  inn  where  the 
horses  were  left.  We  had  still  over  an 
hour,  and  I  proposed  a  walk  to  the  river- 
bank.  To  this  Marion  assented. 

We  set  out,  and  I  led  the  way  toward 
that  very  cottage  where  I  had  taken  her  on 
that  memorable  occasion  when  I  first  met 
her.  I  had  no  purpose  in  this,  more  than 
an  irresistible  desire  to  stand  on  that  bank 
by  her  side,  and,  in  company  with  her,  to 
look  over  that  river,  and  have  the  eyes  of 
both  of  us  simultaneously  looking  over  the 
track  of  our  perilous  journey.  And  still, 
even  with  such  a  purpose  as  this,  I  resolved 
to  discard  all  sentiment,  and  maintain  only 
the  friendly  attitude. 

The  cottage  was  not  far  away,  and,  in 
a  short  time,  we  entered  the  gate  of  the 


142  THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 

and    found    ourselves    approaching 


farm, 
it. 

As  we  went  on,  a  sudden  change  came 
over  Marion. 

Up  to  the  time  of  our  entering  the  gate 
she  had  still  maintained  the  geniality  of 
manner  and  the  lightness  of  tone  which 
had  sprung  up  during  our  wanderings  about 
the  falls.  But  here,  as  we  came  within 
sight  of  the  cottage,  I  saw  her  give  a  sud 
den  start.  Then  she  stopped  and  looked 
all  around.  Then  she  gave  a  sudden  look 
at  me — a  deep,  solemn,  earnest  look,  in 
which  her  dark,  lustrous  eyes  fastened 
themselves  on  mine  for  a  moment,  as 
though  they  would  read  my  very  soul. 

And  at  that  look  every  particle  of  my 
commonplace  tone,  and  every  particle  of 
my  resolution,  vanished  and  passed  away 
utterly. 

The  next  instant  her  eyes  fell.  We  had 
both  stopped,  and  now  stood  facing  one 
another. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  I,  in  deep  agitation. 
"I  thought  it  might  interest  you.  But, 
if  you  wish  it,  we  may  go  back.  Shall  we 
go  back,  or  shall  we  go  on  ?" 

"As  you  please,"  said  she,  in  a  low 
voice. 

We  went  on. 

We  did  not  stop  at  the  cottage.  We 
passed  by  it,  walking  in  silence  onward 
toward  the  river-bank.  We  reached  it  at 
last,  and  stood  there  side  by  side,  looking 
out  upon  the  river. 

We  were  at  the  top  of  a  bank  which 
descended  steeply  for  a  great  distance.  It 
was  almost  a  cliff,  only  it  was  not  rock, 
but  sandy  soil,  dotted  here  and  there  with 
patches  of  grass  and  clumps  of  trees.  Far 
below  us  was  the  river,  whose  broad  bosom 
lay  spread  out  for  miles,  dotted  with  the 
white  sails  of  passing  vessels.  The  place 
where  we  stood  was  a  slight  promontory, 


and  commanded  a  larger  and  more  extend 
ed  view  than  common.  On  the  left  and 
below  us  was  the  lie  d'Orleans,  while  far 
away  up  the  river  Cape  Diamond  jutted 
forth,  crowned  by  its  citadel,  and,  cluster 
ing  around  it,  we  saw  the  glistening  tin 
roofs  and  tapering  spires  of  Quebec.  But 
at  that  moment  it  was  neither  the  beauty 
nor  the  grandeur  of  this  wonderful  scene 
that  attracted  my  gaze,  but  rather  the  river 
itself.  My  eyes  fastened  themselves  on  that 
broad  expanse  of  deep  and  dark-blue  water, 
and  wandering  from  the  beach  beneath,  up 
the  river,  to  the  shore,  opposite  Quebec — 
many  a  mile  away — in  that  moment  all  the 
events  of  our  memorable  journey  came 
back  before  me,  distinctly  and  vividly.  I 
stood  silent.  Marion,  too,  was  silent,  as 
though  she  also  had  the  same  thoughts  as 
those  which  filled  me.  Thus  we  both  stood 
in  silence,  and  for  a  long  time  our  eyes 
rested  upon  the  mighty  river  which  now 
rolled  its  vast  flood  beneath  us,  no  longer 
ice-bound,  but  full  and  free,  the  pathway  for 
mighty  navies,  and  the  thoroughfare  of  na 
tions. 

Now  I  was  able  to  grasp  the  full  and 
complete  reality  of  our  fearful  adventure. 
We  had  wandered  from  the  opposite  shore 
far  up  near  Point  Levi,  toiling  over  treach 
erous  ice,  which,  even  as  we  walked,  had 
moved  onward  toward  the  sea,  and  had 
thus  borne  us  down  for  miles  till  we  at 
tained  the  shore  at  this  place.  Looking 
at  the  river,  I  could  trace  the  pathway 
which  we  had  taken,  and  could  fix  the 
locality  of  every  one  of  those  events  which 
had  marked  that  terrible  journey— where 
the  horse  ran— where  the  sleigh  floated — 
where  I  had  drawn  it  to  the  ice — where  the 
ice-ridge  rose — where  we  had  clambered 
over — where  Marion  fell— till  finally  beside 
this  shore  I  could  see  the  place  where  that 
open  channel  ran,  near  which  she  had  fallen 


MY  OWN  AFFAIES. 


143 


for  the  last  time,  when  I  had  raised  her  in 
my  arms  and  borne  her  back  to  life.  And 
there,  too,  below  us,  was  the  steep  bank  up 
which  I  had  borne  her — how  I  knew  not, 
but  in  some  way  or  other  most  certainly — 
till  I  found  refuge  for  her  in  the  hospitable 
cottage.  At  this  last  I  looked  with  the 
strongest  emotion.  What  strength  must 
have  been  mine !  what  a  frenzied,  frantic 
effort  I  must  have  put  forth !  what  a  mad 
ness  of  resolve  must  have  nerved  my  limbs 
to  have  carried  her  up  such  a  place  as  that ! 
In  comparison  with  this  last  supreme  effort 
all  the  rest  of  that  journey  seemed  weak 
and  commonplace. 

Rousing  myself  at  last  from  the  profound 
abstraction  into  which  I  had  fallen,  I  turned 
and  looked  at  my  companion. 

She  was  standing  close  beside  me ;  her 
hands  hung  in  front  of  her,  closed  over  one 
another ;  her  head  was  slightly  bent  for 
ward  ;  her  eyes  were  opened  wide,  and  fixed 
steadfastly  upon  the  river  at  the  line  which 
we  might  have  traversed  ;  and  there  was  in 
her  face  such  rapt  attention,  such  deep  and 
all-absorbed  meditation,  that  I  saw  her  in 
terest  in  this  scene  was  equal  to  mine.  But 
there  was  more  than  interest.  There  was 
that  in  her  face  which  showed  that  the  inci 
dents  of  that  journey  were  now  passing  be 
fore  her  mind  ;  her  face  even  now  assumed 
that  old  expression  which  it  had  borne  when 
first  I  saw  her — it  was  white,  horror-strick 
en,  and  full  of  fear— the  face  that  had  fixed 
itself  on  my  memory  after  that  day  of  days 
— the  face  of  my  Lady  of  the  Ice. 

She  did  not  know  that  I  was  looking  at 
her,  and  devouring  her  with  my  gaze.  Her 
eyes  wandered  over  the  water  and  toward 
the  shore.  I  heard  her  quick  breathing, 
and  saw  a  sudden  shudder  pass  through 
her,  and  her  hands  clutch  one  another 
more  tightly  in  a  nervous  clasp,  as  she 
came  to  that  place  where  she  had  fallen 


last.  She  looked  at  that  spot  on  the  dark 
water  for  a  long  time,  and  in  visible  agita 
tion.  What  had  taken  place  after  she  had 
fallen  she  well  knew,  for  I  had  told  it  all 
on  my  first  visit  to  her  house,  but  it  was 
only  from  my  account  that  she  knew  it. 
Yet  here  were  the  visible  illustrations  of 
my  story — the  dark  river,  the  high,  pre 
cipitous  bank.  In  all  these,  as  in  all 
around,  she  could  see  what  I  had  done  for 
her. 

Suddenly,  with  a  start,  she  raised  her 
head,  and,  turning,  looked  full  upon  me. 
It  was  a  wild,  eager,  wistful,  questioning 
look — her  large,  lustrous  eyes  thrilled  me 
through  with  their  old  power ;  I  saw  in  her 
face  something  that  set  my  heart  throbbing 
with  feverish  madness.  It  was  a  mute  ap 
peal — a  face  turned  toward  me  as  though 
to  find  out  by  that  one  eager,  piercing, 
penetrating  glance,  something  that  she 
longed  to  know.  At  the  same  time  there 
was  visible  in  her  face  the  sign  of  another 
feeling  contending  with  this — that  same 
constraint,  and  shy  apprehension,  and 
timidity,  which  had  so  long  marked  her 
manner  toward  me. 

And  now,  in  that  moment,  as  her  face 
thus  revealed  itself,  and  as  this  glance 
thrilled  through  me,  there  flashed  upon  my 
mind  in  a  moment  the  meaning  of  it  all. 
There  was  but  an  instant  in  which  she 
thus  looked  at  me — the  next  instant  a  flush 
passed  over  her  face,  and  her  eyes  fell,  but 
that  very  instant  I  snatched  her  hand  in 
both  of  mine  and  held  it. 

She  did  not  withdraw  it.  She  raised  her 
eyes  again,  and  again  their  strange  ques 
tioning  thrilled  through  me. 

"  Marion,"  said  I,  and  I  drew  her  toward 
me.  Her  head  fell  forward.  I  felt  her 
hand  tremble  in  mine. 

"Marion,"  said  I — lingering  fondly  on 
the  name  by  which  I  now  called  her  for 


144 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


the  first  time — "  if  I  ask  you  to  be  mine — 
will  you  turn  away  ?  " 

She  did  not  turn  away. 

She  raised  her  face  again  for  a  moment, 
and  again  for  a  moment  the  thrilling  glance 
flashed  from  her  deep,  dark  eyes,  and  a 
faint  smile  of  heavenly  sweetness  beamed 
across  the  glory  of  her  solemn  face. 

There ! 

I  let  the  curtain  drop. 

I'm  not  good  at  describing  love-scenes, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know. 

What's  more,  I  don't  want  to  be  either 
good  or  great  at  that. 

For,  if  a  fellow  feels  like  a  fool,  you 
know,  when  he's  talking  spooney,  how 
much  more  like  a  fool  must  he  feel  when 
he  sits  down  and  deliberately  writes  spoon 
ey  !  You  musn't  expect  that  sort  of  thing 
from  me  at  any  rate — not  from  Macrorie. 
I  can  feel  as  much  as  any  fellow,  but  that's 
no  reason  why  I  should  write  it  all  out. 

Another  point. 

I'm  very  well  aware  that,  in  the  story 
of  my  love,  I've  gone  full  and  fair  against 
the  practice  of  the  novelist.  For  instance, 
now,  no  novelist  would  take  a  hero  and 
make  him  fall  in  love  with  a  girl,  no  mat 
ter  how  deucedly  pretty  she  might  be,  who 
had  been  in  love  with  another  fellow,  and 
tried  to  run  off  with  him.  Of  course  not. 
Very  well.  Now,  you  see,  my  dear  fellow, 
all  I've  got  to  say  is  this,  that  I'm  not  a 
novelist.  I'm  an  historian,  an  autobiog- 
rapher,  or  any  thing  else  you  choose.  I've 
no  imagination  whatever.  I  rely  on  facts. 
I  can't  distort  them.  And,  what's  more,  if 
I  could  do  so,  I  wouldn't,  no  matter  what 
the  taste  or  fashion  of  the  day  might  be. 

There's  a  lot  of  miserable,  carping  sneaks 
about,  whose  business  it  is  to  find  fault  with 
every  thing,  and  it  just  occurs  to  me  that 
some  of  this  lot  may  take  it  into  their 


heads — notwithstanding  the  facts,  mind  you 
— may  take  it  into  their  heads,  I  say,  to 
make  the  objection  that  it  is  unnatural, 
when  a  girl  has  already  been  so  madly  in 
love,  for  another  fellow  to  win  her  affections 
in  so  short  a  time.  Such  fellows  are  be 
neath  notice,  of  course ;  but,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  world  at  large,  and  humanity  in  gen 
eral,  I  beg  leave  to  suggest  a  few  important 
points  which  serve  to  account  for  the  above- 
mentioned  change  of  affection,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing : 

I.  The  mutability  of  humanity. 

II.  The  crushing  effects  of  outrage  and 
neglect  on  the  strongest  love. 

III.  My  own  overwhelming  claims. 

IV.  The  daily  spectacle  of  my  love  and 
devotion. 

V.  My  personal  beauty. 

VI.  The  uniform  of  the  Bobtails. 
The  above,  I  think,  will  suffice. 

The  drive  back  was  very  different  from 
the  drive  down.  On  the  way  I  heard  from 
Marion's  own  lips  a  full  explanation  of 
many  of  those  things  which  had  been  puz 
zling  me  for  the  last  two  months.  She  ex 
plained  all  about  the  crossing  of  the  river, 
though  not  without  some  hesitation,  for  it 
was  connected  with  her  infatuation  about 
Jack.  Still,  she  had  got  over  that  utterly, 
and,  as  I  knew  all  about  it,  and  as  she  had 
nothing  but  indifference  toward  him,  I  was 
able  to  get  an  explanation  from  her  without 
much  difficulty. 

It  seems,  then,  that  O'Halloran  had  for 
bidden  Marion  to  see  Jack,  but  she  was  in 
fatuated  about  him,  and  anxious  to  see  him. 
She  had  met  him  several  times  at  the  house 
of  a  friend  at  Point  Levi,  and  a  few  days 
before  that  eventful  journey  O'Halloran  had 
gone  to  Montreal.  At  the  same  time  Jack 
had  written  her,  telling  her  that  he  would 
be  over  there.  So  she  took  advantage  of 


GEAND  CONCLUSION. 


145 


her  father's  absence  to  go  over  on  a  visit, 
hoping  also  to  meet  with  Jack.  But  Jack 
was  not  there.  She  stayed  as  long  as  she 
dared,  and  finally  had  to  return  so  as  to  be 
home  before  her  father  got  back.  This  was 
the  day  of  the  storm.  She  had  much  diffi 
culty  in  finding  a  driver,  but  at  length  suc 
ceeded  by  means  of  a  heavy  bribe.  Then 
followed  her  momentous  meeting  with  me. 
Her  departure  from  the  cottage  so  abruptly 
was  owing  to  her  intense  desire  to  get  home 
before  her  father  should  arrive.  This  she 
succeeded  in  doing.  She  felt  deeply  grate 
ful  to  me,  but  did  not  dare  to  take  any 
steps  to  show  gratitude,  for  fear  her  father 
would  hear  of  her  journey  to  Point  Levi. 
Nora  knew  about  it,  and  kept  her  secret 
from  O'Halloran  most  faithfully.  Then 
came  my  arrival  upon  the  scene.  She  rec 
ognized  me  at  once,  and  as  soon  as  I  told 
my  story  Nora  recognized  me,  too,  as  Mar 
ion's  mysterious  deliverer. 

They  held  counsel  together  after  leaving 
the  room,  and,  seeing  O'Halloran's  fancy  for 
me,  they  thought  I  might  often  come  again. 
They  saw,  too,  that  I  had  noticed  their  agi 
tation,  but  had  not  recognized  Marion. 
They  judged  that  I  would  suspect  them, 
and  so  Nora  volunteered  to  personate  the 
lady  so  as  to  save  Marion  from  that  out 
burst  of  indignation  which  was  sure  to  fall 
on  her  if  her  father  knew  of  her  disobe 
dience.  This,  then,  was  the  cause  of  No 
ra's  assumption  of  a  false  part.  She  had 
told  some  plausible  story  to  O'Halloran 
which  satisfied  him  and  saved  Marion  ;  but 
her  peculiar  fpank  and  open  nature  made 
her  incapable  of  maintaining  her  part,  and 
also  led  to  my  absurd  proposal  to  her,  and 
its  consequences. 

Meanwhile  Marion  had  her  troubles.     She 

had  not  seen  Jack,  but  on"  her  return  got 

his  frantic  letter,  proposing  an  elopement, 

and  threatening  to  blow  his  brains  out. 

10 


She  answered  this  as  we  have  seen.  After 
this,  she  heard  all  about  Jack's  love-affairs, 
and  wrote  to  him  on  the  subject.  He  an 
swered  by  another  proposal  to  elope,  and 
reproached  her  with  being  the  cause  of  his 
ruin.  This  reproach  stung  her,  and  filled 
her  with  remorse.  It  was  not  so  much  love 
as  the  desperation  of  self-reproach  which 
had  led  to  her  foolish  consent.  So  at  the 
appointed  time  she  was  at  the  place ;  but 
instead  of  Jack — there  was  quite  another 
person. 

Of  course,  I  did  not  get  all  the  above 
from  her  at  that  time.  Some  of  it  she  told ; 
but  the  rest  came  out  long  afterward. 
Long  afterward  I  learned  from  her  own 
dear  lips  how  her  feelings  changed  toward 
me,  especially  on  that  night  when  I  saved 
her  and  brought  her  home.  Jack  became 
first  an  object  of  contempt,  then  of  indiffer 
ence.  Then  she  feared  that  I  would  despise 
her,  and  tried  to  hold  aloof.  Despise 
her  ! ! ! ! ! 

All  this,  and  a  thousand  other  things, 
came  out  afterward,  in  the  days  of  our 
closer  association,  when  all  was  explained, 
and  Marion  had  no  more  secrets  to  keep 
from  me,  and  I  had  none  from  her. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

GRAND  CONCLUSION.  —  WEDDING-RINGS  AND 
BALL-RINGS. — ST.  MALACHl'S. — OLD  FLETCH 
ER  IN  HIS  GLORY. — NO  HUMBUG  THIS  TIME. 
— MESSAGES  SENT  EVERYWHERE. — ALL  THE 
TOWN  AGOG. — QUEBEC  ON  THE  RAMPAGE. 
— ST.  MALACHl'S  CRAMMED.  —  GALLERIES 
CROWDED. — WHITE  FAVORS  EVERYWHERE. — 
THE  "WIDOW  HAPPY  WITH  THE  CHAPLAIN. — 
THE  DOUBLE  WEDDING.  —  FIRST  COUPLE — 

JACK  AND   LOUIE! — SECOND  DITTO — 
MACRORIE  AND    MARION  !— COLONEL 

BERTON  AND  O'HALLORAN   GIVING  AWAY  THE 


146 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  ICE. 


BRIDES.  —  STRANGE  ASSOCIATION  OF  THE 
BRITISH  OFFICER  AND  THE  FENIAN. — JACK 
AND  MACRORIE,  LOUIE  AND  MARION. — BRIDES 
AND  BRIDEGROOMS. — EPITHALAMIUM. — WED 
DING  IN  HIGH  LIFE. — SIX  OFFICIATING  CLER 
GYMEN. — ALL  THE  ELITE  OF  QUEBEC  TAKE 
PART. — ALL  THE  CLERGY,  ALL  THE  MILITARY, 
AND  EVERYBODY  WHO  AMOUNTS  TO  ANY 
THING. — THE  BAND  OF  THE  BOBTAILS  DIS 


COURSING  SWEET  MUSIC,  AND  ALL  THAT  SORT 
OF  THING,  YOU   KNOW. 

ON  reading  over  the  above  heading,  I  find 
it  so  very  comprehensive  that  it  leaves  noth 
ing  more  for  me  to  say.  I  will  therefore 
make  my  bow,  and  retire  from  the  scene, 
with  my  warmest  congratulations  to  the 
reader  at  reaching 


THE    END. 


POPULAR  WORKS  OF  FICTION 

PUBLISHED    BY 

r>.   -A.  :P  :P  L  23  T  o  :xr    <sc    oo.a 

9O,  92  <fc  94  Grand  St.,  New  York. 


APPLETONS1  ILLUSTBATED  LIBEAEY  OF  BOMANCE. 

In  uniform  octavo  volumes, 
Handsomely  illustrated,  and  bound  either  in  paper  covers,  or  in  muslio, 

Frioe,   in  3?aper,   $1.OO;    in  Clotli,   $1.5O. 

%*  In  this  series  of  Romances  are  included  the  famous  novels  of  LOUISA 
MUHLBACH.  Since  the  time  when  Sir  "Walter  Scott  produced  so  profound  a  sensa 
tion  in  the  reading-world,  no  historical  novels  have  achieved  a  success  so  great  as 
those  from  the  pen  of  Miss  MUHLBACH. 

1.  TOO  STRANGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE.    A  Novel.    By  Lady  Georgians 

Fullerton. 

2.  THE  CLEVER  WOMAN  OP  THE  FAMILY.    By  Miss  Yonge,  au 

thor  of  "The  Heir  of  Redclyfife,"  "Heartsease,"  etc. 
8.    JOSEPH  H.   AND  HIS  COURT.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

4.  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  AND  HIS  COURT.    By  Louisa  Mnhl- 

bach. 

5.  BERLIN  AND  SANS-SOUCI;  or,  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT  AND 

TTTS  FRIENDS.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

6.  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

7.  FREDERICK    THE    GREAT    AND    HIS    FAMILY.      By    Louisa 

Muhlbach. 

8.  HENRY  Vm.  AND  CATHARINE  PARR.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

9.  LOUISA  OF  PRUSSIA  AND  HER  TIMES.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

10.  TVTARTF.  ANTOINETTE  AND  HER  SON.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

11.  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  AN  EMPRESS.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

12.  NAPOLEON  AND  THE  QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA.    By  Louisa  Muht 

bach. 

13.  THE  EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

14.  NAPOLEON  AND  BLUCHER.    An  Historical  Romance.    By  Louisa 

Muhlbach. 

15.  COUNT   MIRABEAU.    An  Historical  Novel.    By  Theodor  Mundt. 

16.  A  STORMY  LIFE.    A  Novel.  By  Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton, 

of  "Too  Strange  not  to  be  True." 

17.  OLD  FRITZ  AND  THE  NEW  ERA.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

18.  ANDREAS  HOFER.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

19.  DORA.    By  Julia  Kavanagh. 

20.  JOHN   MILTON   AND    HIS   TIMES.    By  Max  Ring. 

21.  BEAUMARCHAIS.    An  Historical  Tale.    By  A.  E.  Brachvog-eL 

22.  GOETHE  AND  SCHILLER.    By  Louisa  Muhlbach. 

23.  A  CHAPLET  OF  PEARLS.    By  Miss  Yonsre. 


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Grace  Aguilar. 


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tal  story  he  has  produced,  written  in  the  happiest  style." 

F.  Caballero0 

"FT^TA ;   or,  Spain  Fifty  "Years  Ago.    A  Novel    1  vol.,  12mo.    Cloth.    $1. 

Mary  Cowden  Clarke0 

THE    IRON    COUSIN.     A  Tale.     1  vol.,  12m<x     Cloth.     $1.50. 

"  The  story  is  too  deeply  interesting  to  allow  the  reader  to  lay  it  down  till  he  has 
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Charles  Dickens. 

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Clear  type,  handsomely  printed,  and  of  convenient  size.     18  vols.,  8vo.     Paper. 

Pages.     Cta.  Pages.     Ctai 


OLIVER   TWIST 172..25 

AMERICAN    NOTES 104..  15 

DOMBEY    &   SON 356. .35 

MARTIN    CHUZZLEWIT..342..35 
OUR    MUTUAL    FRIEND.. 330.. 35 

CHRISTMAS    STORIES 162 . .  25 

TALE    OF    TWO    CITIES..  144.. 20 
HARD  TIMES,  and  ADDI 
TIONAL    CHRISTMAS 
STORIES 200.  .25 


BLEAK    HOUSE 340. .35 

LITTLE    DORRIT 330-.35 

PICKWICK    PAPERS. 326.. 35 

DAVID    COPPERFIELD ....  35 1 ..  35 

BARNABY    RUDGE 257.. 30 

OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP.... 221.. 30 

SKETCHES 196.. 25 

GREAT    EXPECTATIONS..  184.. 25 
UNCOMMERCIAL     TRAV 
ELLER,     PICTURES 


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OUR    MUTUAL    FRIEND.    With  Illustrations  by  Marcus  Stone.    London  edition,    2 
vois.,  12m<x    Scarlet  Cloth,  $5.00 ;  Half  Calf,  $5.00. 


D-  Appleton  &  Company's  Publications. 


Grace  Aguilar. 

HOME    INFLUENCE.     12mo.     Cloth.  |  WOMAN'S    FRIENDSHIP. 


$1.00. 


$2.00. 
HOME    SCENES    AND    HEART 


Cloth.    $1.00. 


MOTHER'S    RECOMPENSE.     12mo.    WQMEN  op  ISEAEIj.    2  Vcl9>>  12rao 

Cloth.    $1.00.  Q  th     $200 

DAYS  OF  BRUCE.   2vols.,12mo.  Cloth. 


VALE    OP    CEDARS.      12mo.     Cloth. 


$1.08L 

STUDIES.    12mo.    Cloth.    $1.00. 

"  Grace  Aguilar's  works  possess  attractions  which  will  always  place  them  amon*. 
the  standard  writings  which  no  library  can  be  without.  '  Mother's  Recompense '  and 
'  Woman's  Friendship >  should  be  read  by  both  young  and  old." 

W.  Arthur. 

THE    SUCCESSFUL    MERCHANT.     1  voL,  12ma     Cloth.     $1. 

J.  U.  Houton. 

ROUND  THE  BLOCK.    A  new  American  Novel.   Illustrated.   lvoL,12mo.   Cloth.   |1.25. 
"  Unlike  most  novels  that  now  appear,  it  has  no  *  mission,'  the  author  being  neither 
a  politician  nor  a  reformer,  but  a  story-teller,  according  to  the  old  pattern ;  and  a  capi 
tal  story  he  has  produced,  written  in  the  happiest  style." 

F.  CaballerOo 

;   or,  Spain  Fifty  Years  Ago.    A  NoveL    lvol.,12mo.    Cloth.    $1. 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


